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Today's Document
bliss lane
Misplaced Lens Cap
The Stonewall Inn
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
Monterey Bay Aquarium
d e v o n
Cosimo Galluzzi
Cosmic Funnies
almost home
Andulka
Claire Keane
YOU ARE THE REASON
TVSTRANGERTHINGS
The Bowery Presents
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@theartofmadeline
we're not kids anymore.
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@mischievouspanda
Hi lovely! Welcome to my blog!
As a Black woman, the women I write about, the culture I infuse into my work, the lingo I use-- they are an extension of Black culture. With that in mind, all I ask is that you respect that as you read and fall in love with the mini-worlds I build with words.
𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝
Ｊｕｊｕｔｓｕ Ｋａｉｓｅｎ
𝘎𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘚𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘶 𝘟 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 | 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 | 𝘤𝘢𝘯𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘶
Boundless ongoing with four parts currently: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four,
𝘎𝘰𝘫𝘰 𝘚𝘢𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘶 𝘟 𝘚𝘰𝘳𝘰𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘺!𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 | 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 | 𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘯 𝘢𝘶
Closed Weekends : Part One , Part Two , [part three coming soon]
Ｇａｃｈｉａｋｕｔａ
𝘌𝘯𝘫𝘪𝘯 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 | 𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘯 𝘢𝘶
Trivia Princess complete with two parts: Part One, Part Two
Logistical Pining: childhood friends tell the family
𝘌𝘯𝘫𝘪𝘯 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 | 𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘯 𝘢𝘶
Mine complete: Oneshot
Ａｖａｔａｒ Ｔｈｅ Ｌａｓｔ Ａｉｒｂｅｎｄｅｒ
𝘡𝘶𝘬𝘰 𝘹 𝘉𝘢𝘥𝘥𝘪𝘦!𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳 |𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘴 | 𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘯 𝘢𝘶
Best Behavior: Part One , Part Two
Compromised: background on how these two met
Thee Baddies Headquarters: zuko spends a night for the first time
Officer: Oneshot daddy zuko to the resuce kind of vibe
Precision: Oneshot maid of honor duties meets long night
I genuinely write based on hyperfixations, vibes, and the random request from a lovely reader. So, if there's anything you'd like to see more of---just let me know!
I don't usually upload based on work, but it's dependent on which character I'm most fixed on/ reading the most about at the moment. With that being said, I'll try to ensure that, for my miniseries, I follow a biweekly schedule. At any point in time you have questions or comments, feel free to ask or drop it-- I love chatting!
Toodles!
Mack
Gotta focus on one WIP this weekend, but they're all just so fun to write, so help me out please!
Zuko × Baddie!Reader 🩷
Gojo 🤍
Enjin❤️
Secret fourth option I'm hyperfixating on✨
I'll most likely focus on two, but I will ensure that I work on one enough for it to be ready to upload within the next week or so. Maybe sooner since it's a light work week and I've been in a good writing groove :)
Mack 💕
Im absolutely obsessed over your Zuko stories! And definitely can't wait for more. Can you maybe do a group post with links to every one of them? I want to be sure i haven't missed anything ❤️
I can and did indeed do that for you! Thanks so much for the suggestion and for reading! I genuinely appreciate it so much! 🫶🏽💕
Master Post for Zuko x Baddie!Reader
Mack 💕
Master Post | Zuko x Baddie!Reader miniseries modern au
When I began this series, I wrote a one-shot that I hadn't anticipated to go anywhere. Therefore, the story is anachronic! It jumps along timelines with Best Behavior being the end result and the other stories are snippets into how they got there :)
Best Behavior: Synopsis: Girls night is unrivaled. A time to let loose, get cute, get drunk, and, when you return home to your man, get filthy.
Compromised: Synopsis: One too many cosmos, an encounter with a chaotic sister, and waking up bare-faced in a strange bed. Girls night has been compromised and the results are under deliberation.
Thee Baddie Headquarters: Synopsis: After three months of exclusive dating, Zuko finally earns himself an invite to your place for Black Cinema 101. It's a night of movies, take-out, and sexual restraint that finally shatters.
Officer: Synopsis: What does being in a nine-month relationship and hitting balls at the nineth hole have in common? They’ll both leave you completely breathless and utterly speechless.
Precision: Synopsis: The only eight-counts you're confident in performing are in the bedroom, but you'll work hard on the dance floor too with your man backing you up.
As I continue to add to the series, I'll be sure to keep this post updated so you can access them all in one spot!!
Mack 💕
hi sweetie, i just wanted to give you a huge hug for your recent Enjin fic >_< it was so heartwarming. you characterized him so well, beyond what i normally see in fanfiction, and i really loved how you wrote the family dynamics.
although, i'm not a black reader, so i'm not exactly sure if this fic was made for me. i'm south american and pretty damn pale but my mom is mixed! she adores RnB and hiphop, and i grew up listening to those genres (though now I'm more of a soul fan). honestly, reader's family reminded me so much of mine. i couldn't help but see a little of myself in her (〃´ω`〃)
i understand it's important for black writers to create safe spaces for themselves and their art. even so, as a non-black girlie i really wanted to express my appreciation for what you write (i read another one of your fics a few days ago!). i'm so happy to have stumbled upon this account. hope this message brightens your day a little <33
I genuinely teared up reading this, thank you so much!!!!! ✨ When I write, I write mainly for myself. I have a strong desire to see the culture that surrounds me in words and this is one of the fun ways I can do it with no strings or restrictions attached.
With that being said, it really has brought me so much joy to see other people read it and feel what I desperately want to convey and also see more of.
Thank you so much for reading and for your kind words! 🫶🏽 It really does mean a whole lot! 💕
Mack 💕
just here to say i am loving the zuko x baddie!reader series it’s so so good. i always look forward to getting the notification that i’ve been tagged in a new post 😍
not a request or anything like that but omg have you ever thought about zuko x reader doing a boss/secretary role play? 🤭 i know they’d have so much fun with it
I have not thought about that, but THAT! Is a splendid idea!!! Will add to my 'need to create list'!!!!!🤭
And thank you so much for reading! I'm so happy to hear that you enjoy them and that its something you look forward too! 🫶🏽
I should have another addition uploaded soon!
Mack💕
18+ MDNI, 17k words
Logistical Pining
Synopsis: Your childhood friend has called you Princess all your life. One drunk night. One game of trivia. Now he calls you his---but that means something entirely different when spoken in front of your families.
Tags: dirty talk, bigdick Enjin, reader and Enjin are down bad, half plot/half smut, manhandling, fingering, sex while drunk, swearing, modern/ college au, fratEnjin, fem!reader, pet names, oral (m receiving).
Author note: We could consider this a follow up to Trivia Princess. I have a bad habit of writing for Enjin and then suddenly I'm looking at a 40k word document, but I just couldn't edit that whole thing, and I really wanted to get this out.
not proofread
“Jin, you’re not listening, and I think it’s on purpose. Stop being obtuse,” you grumble, aggressively walking into your parents’ house with him hot on your heels. There is a glint in his eyes and a blank stare on his face, his hands completely full with both of your bags.
“Y/n, I’m trying to be nice because it’s the holidays, but strike one is exactly one more smartass comment away,” he states in a matter-of-fact tone.
“How y’all gonna come into somebody else's house arguing?” your mom calls out.
The heavy thud of the front door closing behind you is immediately swallowed by the soulful grit of Mary J. Blige vibrating through the hallway. The air in your childhood home is thick—a humid, savory fog of slow-simmering greens, toasted pecans, and the sharp bite of vinegar that signals the start of the Wednesday prep.
“We aren’t arguing, Mama L,” Jin calls out, his voice instantly smoothing into that respectful, practiced charm he’s used on your mother for years.
He doesn’t drop the bags immediately. Instead, he follows you into the heart of the house, his presence taking up twice as much space in the narrow hallway as yours does. He waits until you've reached the entryway of the kitchen before he finally lets your luggage hit the floor with a dull, synchronized clack.
Before you can snap back about his “strike one” comment, he’s already moving. He sidesteps the bags and pulls your mother into a deep, genuine hug, lifting her slightly off her feet with a low chuckle.
“You know she likes to pick fights when she’s tired,” he murmurs into her hair, casting a sharp, golden side-eye in your direction that tells you the “smartass” tally is still running. “I’m just the designated punching bag for the weekend.”
“Is that right?” your mom asks, pulling back to swat at his arm before turning her narrow, knowing gaze on you. “Well, I don’t have time for the dramatics. I’m already stressed that I’m about to have all these people runnin’ in and out my house all weekend, so get it together.” She gives both of you a pointed look.
You snort. “He freaking started it, Mama.”
She tsks. “I don’t care if one of the twelve disciples started it, be sure to end it by the time you come down from putting your bags away.”
Jin’s expression doesn't flicker at your side comment, but his hand finds the small of your back—a heavy, grounding weight that acts as a reminder of his warning. “Where’s my folks? And Mr. L?”
“Out on the patio,” Mama L says, gesturing toward the back of the house with a wooden spoon. “They’re trying to convince your daddy that he doesn’t need to deep-fry a second turkey, but you know how they get once they start on that bourbon.”
Enjin lets out a short laugh. “We’ll join in a second after we get settled.” He doesn’t wait for your rebuttal, already reaching down to snag both bags with a grunt of effort that makes the muscles in his forearms cord. He nudges you toward the stairs with his elbow, his presence at your back acting like a physical wall as he herds you upward, away from the kitchen and your mother's watchful eye.
The stairs creak under his weight, a familiar rhythm that echoes years of him following you up these same steps. Once you hit the landing and duck into your childhood bedroom, the atmosphere shifts instantly. The door hasn't even fully clicked shut behind him before he drops the luggage and pins you with a look that’s equal parts exhausted and amused.
“‘He freaking started it, Mama’?” he mimics, his voice dropping into a mocking, high-pitched lilt that makes your blood boil. “You’re twenty-one years old and still running to your mother because you can't keep your mouth shut for ten minutes in the car?”
You practically bristle at the mimicry. “Oh! Is that what you—” Your words fall into the ether as you spin around, only to end up face-to-face with his chest. You tilt your head back to glare at him properly, ignoring the dark look in his eyes and the warning flashing through them. “You’re fucking doing it again. You’re being dense, Enjin. I asked a simple question: how long were y’all fucking, and did it happen in my house? Why—”
“And I answered you, Y/n. I was honest. You can’t flip your switch and be a damn brat just because you don’t like my honesty,” he snaps. The careful thread of his patience finally gives way as you raise your voice at him. An immediate no in his world.
It is a boundary you bypass and run right over, your voice still three octaves above a conversational tone. “It’s not a matter of not liking it, so don’t you dare pull that card. It’s the damn principle! Three fucking months! Three? And sure, you didn’t fuck her in my house, but what’s the irony of it all? You took her back to your place for Thanksgiving, and that’s where it all started. Do you really not see why that pisses me off? Are you being oblivious on purpose? Because it’s about to make me really earn that so-called one strike.”
The air in the room suddenly feels vacuum-sealed. Enjin doesn't move, but the atmosphere shifts from a heated argument to a dangerous, low-frequency silence. He stares down at you, his golden eyes narrowing into sharp, lethal slits.
“Lower your voice,” he commands. It isn’t a request. It is the sound of a man who has reached the end of his rope, whose holiday high has officially been decimated. He steps deeper into your space, his chest grazing your nose, forcing you to tilt your head back even further just to keep him in view. He doesn’t touch you, but the sheer wall of his presence is enough to anchor you against the edge of the bed.
You grit your teeth, your senses finally attuning to the danger.
“I was seventeen. It was six years ago. I’ve explained myself three times now. What do you want me to do? Erase it? Because I can’t.” His words are clipped, falling like stones. “I’m trying to be compromising because it’s the holidays, midterms just ended, and you just applied for early graduation—but you tell me, when is my patience allowed to run out? Huh? Because I’m at the limit, Y/n. Right now.”
His voice drops into a resonant octave that thrums through your chest. He doesn’t shout. He never has to, but the quietness of his tone is far more lethal than your screaming. He reaches out, his large hand finally closing around the nape of your neck. It’s not a squeeze, but a heavy, grounding anchor that keeps you trapped between his gaze and the mattress. His thumb traces the shell of your ear, a calming, rhythmic motion that contradicts the hardness in his eyes.
A shiver runs down your spine, goosebumps blooming along your arms. The silence feels perilous.
"Nothing to say now?" he mocks, his voice dropping into that dangerous lilt that usually signals he’s finished talking and has shifted to demonstrating.
His hand slides from the nape of your neck to the front of your throat. He doesn't squeeze; it's about control, not air. He applies just enough steady, grounded pressure to keep your head back, forcing you to look up at him without the chance of diverting your gaze. A soft, automatic whimper slips past your lips, and your eyes flutter. Your system does a messy, necessary reboot under the sudden shift in gravity, desperately trying to make sense of the room and calm down all at once—because, unfortunately, he has a point.
He watches your face for a beat, his golden eyes cataloging the way your fire turns into a hazy, responsive submission. The only sound in the bedroom is your jagged exhale as you softly shake your head, confirming you have nothing left to say.
“Wrong damn answer,” he murmurs against your skin, his breath smelling of cool, sharp mint.
He crushes his mouth to yours before you can take a full breath. It isn't a gentle kiss; it’s dominant, certain, and all-consuming. He devours you, his mouth moving with a lethal intent that makes your knees weaken. You moan into him, your resistance dissolving into a desperate need to get closer. Your hands slide underneath his hoodie, finding the warmth of his chest to ground yourself.
He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his thumb tracing your swollen lower lip. You’re breathless, your chest heaving, your eyes heavy with want instead of fire.
“You burned through your warnings, Y/n. You have two minutes to fix your face and your attitude. If you bring that energy down to your mother’s kitchen, I’m not going to be this patient twice. And I promise you, you won’t like the way I choose to end the next argument.”
He doesn’t wait for a rebuttal. He doesn’t linger to see if you’re moving; he simply steps out of the room, leaving the door cracked just enough for the light from the hallway to hit the carpet.
You hear his rhythmic tread on the stairs, navigating the house with the ease of someone who doesn't need to ask where the kitchen is. He doesn't hesitate; he moves straight through the living room and past the kitchen toward the back of the house.
The heavy slide of the glass patio door echoes up through the floorboards. Downstairs, both dads hold glasses of bourbon and wear matching aprons. Enjin's mother, Kai, is seated on the couch peeling sweet potatoes, while your mom sits right beside her cleaning and peeling shrimp, 90s R&B ringing throughout the open space. The chatter amongst the group ceases as they take in the giant figure in the doorway.
“Well, if it isn’t my prodigal son,” Mrs. Kai calls out. Enjin grunts at the sentiment, wrapping his arms over her shoulders from behind in a hug. “You never called me back, you little shit.”
He chuckles. “You spoke with Princess. Whatever she told you was probably more than what I would have said.”
His statement makes the group laugh, everyone well aware that their blonde-haired giant is a man of few words over the phone. But it also sends shared looks rippling through the room.
“Right—which I thought was interesting, since I called on a Thursday evening,” his mother muses, her eyes twinkling with a sudden, sharp focus. “Since when do you spend a night on Thursdays?”
His eyes snap toward your father, whose bourbon freezes near his lips. He lets out a low hum, his dark eyes narrowing as he lets the question settle.
“Thursday, huh, Kai?” your father asks, the glass still hovering.
She nods enthusiastically. “Called him right after I got back from the farmers market with my favorite girl.” She bumps your mother’s shoulder, who wears a shit-eating grin.
“Interrogation as soon as we get home after such a long semester,” Enjin sighs, but the smirk on his face gives him away. “Since about two months ago.”
Your mothers squeal in a synchronized burst of triumph. His father, Roy, groans, reaching for his wallet, while your dad stands speechless.
“Jin, you’re telling me what I think you’re telling me?” his dad inquires, his voice thick with a mix of disbelief and "I-knew-it."
Enjin stands up straight, releasing his mother from his warm hold. He doesn't offer a verbal confirmation yet. Instead, he turns his full attention toward the sound of the door opening again, his gaze locking onto the landing where you've finally appeared.
He tracks the way you move, noting the way your lips are tilted in a tiny, lingering smile and the fact that you’re now wearing one of his hoodies. The oversized fabric swallows your frame, making you look more like his in the eyes of your parents than ever before.
You’re unsure why everyone is staring back and forth between the two of you as if a high-stakes tennis match is occurring, but you keep your eyes locked on his.
“It’s fixed, and I apologize for my attitude,” is all you say, your voice steady despite the lingering heat in your cheeks.
Without waiting for his response, you practically skip into your dad’s open arms. Your father catches you with a loud, booming laugh, but his eyes are still fixed on Enjin, who hasn’t looked away from you for a second.
The scents of bourbon, spices, and the pool encompass you as you bury your head in his arms. “Princess! I missed you so much! Have you been eating well? And sleeping okay? — wait, no, Enjin,” he turns his line of questioning away from you while keeping you in his comforting embrace. “Have you been making sure she’s eating well and sleeping okay?”
You draw your head back, eyes wide, mouth open. “W–”
“Yes, sir,” Enjin answers, cutting through whatever excuse you are about to concoct. He doesn't even hesitate, leaning back against the bar with an effortless, grounded authority. “She still refuses to drink enough water, but I’ve officially gotten her to eat vegetables consistently. She gets at least seven hours of sleep when she isn’t being a brat.”
“I am not a brat; I’m a princess,” you retort, the oversized sleeves of his hoodie flopping as you pull away from your dad’s hold. You move toward Enjin’s dad, Roy, and wrap him in a hug as well.
“Don’t start that arguing again,” your mother demands, pointing a shrimp-deveining knife toward the two of you. She shuts down Enjin’s response before he even has the chance to fully formulate it. You click your tongue, moving across the space to continue your greetings.
“Again?” Kai echoes. Her hands pause to pull you into a hug, her sharp eyes darting between you and her son. The 90s R&B playing in the background suddenly feels like a soundtrack to a courtroom drama with a Keyshia Cole track blaring.
“Yes, they walked through the doors mid-argument. No hi. No hello. Just bickering. I would have thought they were thirteen again instead of twenty-two and twenty-three,” your mom responds with ease, her hands never pausing their rhythm with the shrimp.
You lean over and place a wet kiss against her cheek, trying to soften the blow. “Not arguing… we were debating,” you correct, sliding into the empty spot on the couch between her and Kai.
You feel Enjin’s gaze burning into the back of your neck, but you keep your eyes forward. You watch your dad and his best friend, Roy, as they switch between manning the grill and watching the scene unfold before them like it's the evening news.
“Right—sure sounded like an argument with the way you were shouting upstairs,” your mom chides, casting a knowing side-eye at the stairs.
“Enjin doesn’t yell; he’s like his father in that way,” Kai mentions, her voice smooth and observant. She doesn't look at her son, but you can feel her cataloging the tension that was in your room mere moments ago. “It’s always easier for them to just take a moment, because they know that calm reaction will only irritate you more in the long run. Was this your first argument as an official couple?”
The question feels like a cold bucket of water, snapping the playful atmosphere into something far more serious.
You whip your head to Enjin, who is moving leisurely behind the outdoor bar. He’s already pouring himself a glass of bourbon, mirroring the men at the grill. “You told them already?” you squeak, suddenly hyper-aware of the four sets of eyes tracking your every blink.
“Not quite, Princess,” Enjin murmurs, not even looking up as the amber liquid swirls in his glass. “I think they had a hypothesis and spent the past couple of weeks proving it. I was curious why my mother’s calls started happening on Thursday evenings when she usually waits until Friday afternoons. Not to mention, your mom started calling to ask questions I know they’d already cleared in their group chat.”
He finally looks over his shoulder, his golden eyes meeting yours with a look that says I told you they were ahead of us. “They didn't need me to tell them anything. They already knew the answer,” he adds, his voice dropping into that smooth, matter-of-fact register. He reaches for a bundle of herbs on the counter, his fingers lingering on the leaves. “You want fresh mint in your mojito or strained through?”
Your head falls face-forward into the couch, a long, muffled groan vibrating through the cushions at the way he makes total sense.
“Inside,” you grumble, your thoughts suddenly spiraling at the realization and everything it implies for the rest of the weekend.
Roy chuckles at your antics, watching as you try to become one with the furniture. “It’s not the end of the world, Y/n. We’ve known this day was coming since you were in grade school. It was really just a matter of when.”
Your dad nods in agreement, finally taking a sip of his bourbon. “Precisely that. I just assumed it would happen after graduation. I didn’t realize the stars were going to align during midterms.”
Beside you, your mother and Kai share a synchronized, triumphant look. “That means we won, so be ready to pay up, boys. We’re gonna make your pockets hurtttt on Black Friday,” your mother shouts excitedly.
Your neck cracks from the speed in which you turn to look at her. “Won what? Did y’all have a bet going?”
“Something like that,” Roy trails off.
“Y’all are ridiculous,” you state, your voice laced with pure astonishment. “Since when?”
“Since middle school, baby,” your mother says with a shrug. “We knew Enjin was just waiting for the right time. He told us as much when he graduated high school.”
The air leaves your lungs in a sharp whoosh. You whip your head around to look at Enjin, who is leaning against the bar with his glass of bourbon, looking entirely too unbothered.
“You knew?” you demand, your eyes wide. “You knew they had money on us? You knew they were watching us this whole time and you didn't say a word?”
Enjin doesn't flinch. He takes a slow, deliberate sip of his drink. He doesn't look guilty; if anything, he looks like a man who’s been playing a very long, very successful game.
“I wasn't going to have you overthinking things because of a fifty-dollar bet,” he murmurs, taking your favorite drink in his hand. “I wanted us to figure it out on our terms first.”
He walks toward the couch, his presence looming over you. “Besides,” he adds, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “I figured you’d find out eventually. I just didn't expect it to happen quite like this.” He presses the chilled glass to the side of your face, cooling your warm cheeks.
“Thank you,” you whisper softly, wrapping unsteady hands around it.
“So when did it happen? How? Don’t expect us to not have any questions despite seeing this was coming,” Kai asks, as she begins cleaning the peelings that escaped her bowl.
You take a sip of the strawberry-flavored mojito. The cocktail is a perfect mix of sugar and liquor—just the way you liked it, and exactly what you need to survive this interrogation. “Labor Day weekend… after trivia night and one too many drinks on my side,” you explain.
Flashes of that night dance behind your eyelids—not a quiet night at home, but the chaos of the frat house. You remember the heavy weight of the varsity jacket around your shoulders. You remember standing on a coffee table, shouting out facts about Ramses II and the weight of the pyramids while your teammates cheered you on.
“I didn't expect the night to end the way it did,” you admit, a sheepish smile tugging at your lips. “I was on top of a table, plastered, playing, and winning trivia, and Enjin found me.”
Enjin lets out a low, amused huff from the bar, swirling his bourbon. “Found you is an interesting way of putting it,” he murmurs, his golden eyes locking onto yours with a look that says he still remembers exactly how you looked when he found you in that napkin of a skirt. “I walked in to find my princess being worshipped by a room full of idiots for knowing the Narmer Palette.”
The parents laugh, the sound warm and synchronized, but your mother’s eyes are sharp. “And that’s the night it changed? Between the pyramids and the beer?”
You take a long sip of the mojito, the strawberry flavor masking the memory of the long talk that followed. You remember the shift in the air when he finally reached for you on that table—the way he carried you out like a trophy and the execution of ‘Strike Three’ that waits for you back at the house. And, gosh, the soreness that lasts well into the weekday from the way his hands leave prints across your ass every night until Monday.
“Yes… I told him I loved him while drunk and that… that did it…” Enjin's gaze is steady on you, the smirk gone, replaced by that same raw intensity that usually stays behind closed doors. You clear your throat, trying to perform correctly with your parents’ eyes on you. “I woke up dangerously hungover, but we spoke and reached a rather lovely consensus and here we are…”
“Here we are indeed, Princess,” he smiles sweetly, a rare, unguarded look that makes your walls clinch in response.
“Don’t get cute, you got some explaining to do later,” you remark.
It draws another round of laughter from the group. The sound is warm, filling the patio and momentarily drowning out the music. Your mother and Kai share a triumphant look, likely already calculating how much they plan on scoring during the Black Friday sales.
“Oh, I’m sure he does,” your mother muses, her eyes sparkling with a mix of maternal pride and a lingering curiosity about the data she’s been collecting. “Nonetheless, we’re happy for you kiddos. Congrats on joining the Childhood Lovers group.”
Your fathers finally close the grill, conspiring about heading to your father’s lounge for a cigar. Your mothers collect their food items, prepping to head inside.
Enjin doesn't look away from you. He takes a slow, grounding sip of his bourbon, his golden eyes dark and focused—a stark contrast to the sweet smile he just offered. He adjusts from leaning on the bar and casually takes the seat his mother freed up.
“We’ll leave you two to your talk, we’ll be prepping still. Don’t take too long though, I expect both of you to help,” Kai calls over her shoulder before closing the door once all the grown folks have made their way inside.
He doesn't rush to speak. He looks at you with a slow, predatory focus, the ‘sweet son’ persona he used for the parents evaporating to reveal the man who reprimanded you on his kitchen island months ago.
“Start talkin’, pretty boy,” you demand.
Enjin hums, his cheeks slightly flushed from the bourbon. "What you want me to talk about, Baby?"
"If you had known what you wanted since high school, why the hell did you wait?"
He lets out a hearty laugh, his head thrown back as he lets the sound ring out across the patio. You pout, crossing your arms over the oversized hoodie and feeling a familiar prickle of annoyance. “Enjin,” you whine. The sound alone is enough to slow him down; he turns his head, looking at you head-on instead of through his peripheral vision.
“Yes, Baby?” he asks in a breathy register that always makes your pulse jump.
“If you knew what you wanted since high school, why did you wait?” you repeat.
He shifts in his seat, his legs opening wider to accommodate your weight as he loops an arm underneath your back, pulling you firmly into his lap.
“Do you remember the summer I moved away?” he asks, his voice dropping into a low, reflective hum.
Your eyebrows furrow, and you settle your arms around his neck loosely, the oversized fabric of his hoodie bunching between your fingers. “Yeah. I mean, not to be dramatic, but that was the worst summer of my life. What the hell does that have to do with this?”
His hands dip underneath your shirt, fingers warm as they push your yoga pants down just enough to rest on your hips. “I think my parents told you that we were moving for work. But my parents had decided to split up that summer,” he confesses softly. “I overheard my mom talking about how she felt like she didn’t know who she was outside of my dad. It made sense to me—they’ve been joined at the hip since they were five years old, together since freshman year in high school, through college, and then when my brother and I came around, she was all about us.”
He exhales slowly, settling his head back against the couch to stare at the ceiling, his grip on you tightening just a fraction.
“My dad told her to go explore and find the answers to the questions she had... and if those answers didn’t lead back to him, he would understand and support her. So, Mom went to do just that. But I thought about us—if we were in that predicament further down the line, I couldn’t imagine doing that and being able to let go. I’m selfish, Y/n. I know that, but when it concerns you, I become more than that. Call it possessive, territorial, tunnel-visioned, but I’m not even sure those words really convey just how deep it goes.”
He brings his gaze back down to yours, his golden eyes dark with a vulnerable honesty that often hides behind his mask of control.
“I just couldn’t let you do that,” he admits, his fingers tracing a familiar, rhythmic line along your hip. “So I went to your dad. Thought the local quack could help me out and I told him what was going on in my world, and he said he understood. He said it might just be hormones or it might just be who I am, but only time would give me that answer. But I also wasn't sure how to even go about letting you go about growing without me, when we’re so aligned, so your dad and I created some guidelines. I looked elsewhere, stuck to the rules he and I came up with, and allowed you to grow in whatever capacity you wanted in a romantic sense—without me.”
You stare at him, the weight of his confession finally sinking in. The years of him being your best friend weren't just a waiting game; they were a sacrifice. He’d given you the freedom to choose anyone else, all while making sure no one else could ever measure up to the standard he set.
The silence that follows is heavy. You think back to the years of him picking you up every Friday, the rules he had with your father, and the way he consistently marked your skin to keep other men at a distance. It wasn't just a long game; it was a calculated risk he took to make sure that when you finally chose him, you wouldn't ever feel the need to wonder who you were without him.
You cup his jaw in your hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp, familiar lines of his face. “I—I love you so much,” you whisper, resting your forehead against his. The steady sound of his breathing is only one octave higher than the rapid thud of your heart, but it is grounding in exactly the way you need it to be. The recognition of his devotion, the years of him holding back just to give you the space to find yourself, sends your heart soaring.
He chuckled, the ripple traveling through his chest and into yours. “I love you too, so fucking much, Baby,” he accessorizes his murmur, his voice thick with untethered affection.
He pulls you tighter into his lap, his hands settling firmly on the curve of your ass as he presses you flush against him. Your fingers tentatively trace his bottom lip, your gaze dropping to the mouth that has spent the last couple months claiming every inch of you.
“I want you really badly right now,” you confess, your voice barely a breath against his skin. “But something tells me that as soon as we step inside, that won’t be possible.”
Enjin hums, a dark, amused sound as he nuzzles into the junction of your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin right where his marks sit.
“It won't be,” he agrees, his voice dropping into that low, non-negotiable register. “My mother is already looking for an excuse to keep you in that kitchen, and your dad is probably waiting to corner me about my 'intentions' again.”
He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his golden gaze heavy with the same raw intensity that led to your massage turning into a sex marathon with Wheel of Fortune as the background track.
“So stay right here for a second,” he commands softly, one hand tightening its grip on your ass, the other brushing underneath the wire of your bra. “Because once we walk through that door, I have to share you with the rest of the Childhood Lovers group.”
You giggle, the sound light and airy. “I have this inkling though, that if I stay in your lap any longer you’re gonna cause some trouble.”
He chuckles. “Trouble, hmm? It’s not my fault being in the mere proximity of me turns you feral.”
You give him a playful look, your fingers tightening in his hair. “You’re so full of it. You’ve been ‘conditioning’ me for this since middle school, isn’t that right?”
“And the results are clearly favorable,” he murmurs, his thumb trails the lace of your bra with a slow, agonizing deliberation. He leans in, his lips hovering just a fraction away from yours, claiming your breath before he even claims the kiss. One more minute, Princess. I'm not ready to go back to being the 'prodigal son' just yet.”
The kiss is leisurely and sensual, his mouth moving against yours in a way that speaks of promises for as soon as your parents' bedtime arrives. You tighten your hold around him, your hips moving forward on instinct to feel what being in your presence does to him. Despite the bagginess of his sweatpants, you feel him through the thinness of your pants, pulling a soft moan from you which he swallows.
“Careful, Princess,” he rasps, yet his thumb brushes against your nipple teasingly. “You’re getting yourself worked up, and we both know how you get when you’re overstimulated.”
You breathe out a jagged laugh, your forehead resting against his as you try to regulate your breathing. The scent of bourbon and the cool evening air are the only things keeping you from fully unraveling in his lap.
“You started it,” you whisper, giving a gentle pull to his hair. “Again, the conditioning is clearly working too well.”
Enjin gives a low laugh, a heavy, pulsing sound that travels straight to your core. He claims one final, crushing kiss before lifting you from his lap. “Go. Before your dad decides to come out here and check on us himself,” he commands softly. “I’ll be right behind you. I just need a second.”
You grab your drink from the table, squeaking as he lands a firm smack to your ass as you bend in front of him. “Now who needs to be careful,” you tease, glancing at him over your shoulder.
Enjin doesn't move from his seat, but his eyes track the movement of your hips with a dark, heavy promise. “Still you, Princess. I have no problem with taking your ass to my car, a hotel, or your bedroom. So tread lightly—I’m one suggestive look away from ruining you.”
Your fingers pause on the handle, the sound of your mothers’ laughter floating beyond the glass sliding door. “I hope that’s a promise and guarantee,” you whisper, catching his gaze in the reflection of the door.
“Princess, it’s a vow.”
It sends a shiver down your spine at the weight of his words. You nod, before finally allowing the warmth of the kitchen to take you from the electricity of Enjin.
“Ah! My favorite daughter is back. Where’s the boy?” your mom’s voice raises over the sound of the music and clanking of pans. Kai is standing at the island sink, washing dishes, her gaze just as curious.
“Should be coming in right behind me, or he’s gonna use the side door to head to dad’s lounge,” you explain, taking a long, steady sip of your mojito.
Your mom pauses her intense whisking, her eyes narrowing as she takes in your slightly disheveled state and the way your cheeks are still flushed. “And? Did you two finally finish your ‘debate,’ or do I need to send your father out there to mediate?”
“We’re good, Mama L,” Enjin’s voice cuts through the room before you can respond. He enters from the patio, the cool night air clinging to his shoulders and the scent of bourbon following him like a shadow. He doesn’t look at you, but the way he moves to stand directly beside you, his presence a heavy, destabilizing force, tells you exactly where his mind is: calculating the efficiency necessary to get everything done swiftly so you both can become free of your soon-to-be sous-chef titles.
Kai turns off the faucet, drying her hands as she looks between the two of you with a sharp, maternal focus. “Good. We have lots to do if we want tomorrow to be efficient. Enjin, look at my spreadsheet and go make sure your dad and in-law are on time. Little bit, you'll be helping your mom and me. I want you to chop up the sweet potatoes and then start on snapping the green beans—”
“Kai, taste this? Is it too salty?” your mom interrupts, already popping whatever she’s mixing into Kai’s mouth. Both ladies become distracted with the ratio of the dish, the earlier interrogation momentarily forgotten in favor of culinary perfection.
You turn to look at Enjin, who flips through his mother’s color-coded timetable. “Wow, she’s so thorough. Even has time allotted for ‘our talk’—how’d she even know we’d need one?” you mumble over his forearm.
Enjin doesn't pull his gaze from the papers, but the corner of his mouth quirks into a ghost of a smirk. “You know she works all on probability. This is probably one of three routes she calculated happening.” The rest of his words formulate into static as you press yourself closer to him.
Inhaling deeply, the scent of bourbon and coffee infiltrates your senses. You practically bury yourself into his side, wrapping your arms around him unconsciously, seeking the solid warmth of his chest beneath the hoodie.
“Baby,” he says, low and inquisitive.
It sends a jolt through you—a physical response to the same register he uses when he talks you through it, when he’s edging and overstimulating you until he’s satisfied. He doesn't stop flipping through the spreadsheet, but his free hand leaves the packet to slide to the small of your back, pulling you flush against his hip.
“You’re getting clingy in front of the audience, Princess,” he whispers, his eyes flicking toward the moms to ensure their attention is still fixed on the stove. “If you don’t let go and start on those green beans, Ma is going to realize her probability for ‘our talk’ needs to be moved down by at least an hour.”
A soft whine slips past your lips, snuggling your head even deeper into him. “How can I not be clingy when you smell good, look damn good, sound real good, and treat me as if nothing in this world comes close to what I mean to you?” you whisper, your voice muffled.
He pauses, finally giving you his undivided attention. His world shifts internally at the sight before him. You look as if you are trying to become one with him; your braids hide your face from him, but he knows you are wearing a pout and those beautiful eyes are blown wide with need.
Sparing a glance to your mothers, his mom is watching the scene out of the corner of her eye while talking to your mother about what’s missing.
He shifts so his back is toward them, acting as a wall for where your conversation could potentially pivot. He slips a hand under your chin, tilting your head upward to see the very look that he warned you about on the patio.
He groans quietly. “Princess,” he exhales, his fingers pressing deeper into your hip. “What did we just discuss?”
You don’t respond to his warning, instead trailing your hands up to the strings of his hoodie and tugging. You guide him down until he’s bent over you, his lips ghosting over yours in the narrow space he’s carved out between your bodies and your parents’.
“Just one second,” you whisper, the proximity making your head spin. “I need a kiss and then I will be on my best behavior until nightfall.”
Enjin’s gaze drops to your mouth, his jaw tightening as he weighs the risk of giving in. On one hand, he can give you what you need and send you off, but the way you are pressed against him, smelling like a mix of his cologne and your own unique scent paired with the look in your eyes, is dangerous to his control.
“Best behavior,” he demands, the words sounding more like a command than a question.
You nod, and he finally relents, leaning in to give you exactly what you asked for. It’s not a gentle kiss. It is a profound, weighty pull that reminds you exactly who he is behind closed doors. His tongue slides against yours with a slow, possessive rhythm, tasting of the bourbon he’d been sipping on the patio. His hand shifts from your hip to the nape of your neck to steady you as he drinks you in.
You let out a shaky breath, your fingers tightening on the strings of his hoodie to keep your balance as he claims you. He doesn't just kiss you; he consumes the sound of your soft moans, his teeth catching your bottom lip in a sharp, deliberate bite. The sting is centering, yet earth-shattering all at once. You feel it in the way your clit practically pulses against your underwear.
Tonight. This weekend—with him, will be trouble.
“Ahem.”
He pulls back just a fraction, his lips still grazing yours, wet and swollen. He nips at the sensitive corner of your mouth, his hand moving to the curve of your ass, before sparing a lazy look over his shoulder.
His mother stands by the island with a bag of green beans in one hand and a look of pure, unfiltered amusement on her face.
“I don’t remember ‘making out in the kitchen’ being on the spreadsheet, Enjin,” she notes, tossing the bag onto the table in front of you. “And since you’ll be distracting one another, you can head to the lounge now. We don't need y’all putting us behind schedule,” she instructs. Your mother in the background is half-listening and half-problem-solving another work-in-progress dish.
Enjin straightens up, clearing his throat as he adjusts his hoodie, though he doesn't look even remotely embarrassed. His eyes are low as he looks back down at you, silently checking to see if you are as wrecked as he is before he has to turn around and leave.
Your lips are swollen, but pulled into a shit-eating grin. “Enjoy bonding with the boys, but pray for me while you’re at it. They're going to eat me alive up here,” you jest, unraveling yourself from his embrace.
Enjin lets out a short, dry huff of a laugh. “They might,” he murmurs, his gaze lingering on your mouth for a second too long. “And I have very strong ambitions on following their lead.” With that, he turns on his heels and heads toward the basement.
You flop down at the kitchen table, pulling the bag of green beans toward you. Your fingers feel clumsy, and your pulse is still thrumming from the kiss.
“So,” your mother starts, her voice dropping into that melodic, dangerous lilt she uses when she’s about to dissect a situation. She doesn't look up from the stove, but the way she’s stirring the pot is far too methodical. “That was quite a talk you two had out there. I don’t recall either of you being so hard of hearing that you needed to sit in his lap to hear one another.”
Kai pulls up a chair across from you, grabbing a handful of beans to help. She looks at your swollen lower lip, then back at your eyes, her expression full of mischief. “I expected a lot to happen this weekend, but seeing my son look rattled is new. He usually has a better handle on himself.”
“Aunt Kai, please,” you groan, snapping a bean with a loud crack. “Can we just focus on the food? I thought we were behind schedule.”
The older women cackle in response. “Oh, we are,” your mom says, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips. “But I’ve been waiting since you were in pigtails to see Enjin finally stop pining and start participating. Or at least do a better screening job of your short-lived relationships.”
“Mamaaaa,” you whine, not wanting to be reminded of your past bad decisions that were poor attempts and imitations of Enjin.
Your mother finally turns, leaning against the counter with a wooden spoon in hand. “What, Sugar? He’s always been territorial over you. Even when he moved away that summer, he was calling your father every Friday like clockwork to remind him he was coming into town and picking you up. We wondered when you’d finally catch on, but you were catching different fish in your net.”
Her statement settles two different realizations within you: Enjin was really trying his best consistently, despite you looking the other way because he felt forbidden. Additionally, it wasn't just him waiting; it was everyone around you watching the clock.
“Well, why didn’t anyone say anything?” you counter, giving both ladies a pointed look.
Kai smiles softly, her hands pausing. “Isn’t that what you two were talking about?”
“I—I, well, yes.” Your gaze softens as you peer into molten pools of gold that remind you so much of Enjin. “He told me why he waited… about you and Uncle Roy. But that was eight years ago. What kind of goofy waits eight years?” you question rhetorically.
“The kind of goofy that knows what he wants,” your mother adds, picking up your empty mojito glass and setting a wine glass in its place.
Kai pours a generous amount of Moscato into your glass and her own. “He’s his father’s son. A bit too intense for most people to handle, and he carries a lot of weight on his shoulders. But for you? He’s always been single-minded. Eight years probably felt like nothing compared to the lifetime he’s already planned out with you.”
The kitchen transition is a blur of laughter, shared secrets, and the rhythmic snapping of green beans. With the wine flowing and the “secret” finally out in the open, the interrogation turns into a marathon of storytelling. Kai and your mother trade turns recounting Enjin’s most desperate moments: the times he nearly blew his cover, the way he’d glare at any boy who dared to stand too close to you at graduation, and the silent agreements made between the families long before you ever said "I love you” beyond the planes of being platonic.
By the time the dishwasher is humming and the counters are wiped clean, it is well past midnight. The house finally settles into a heavy, peaceful quiet. Kai retreats to the downstairs guest suite, while your mother heads to her room at the end of the hall, leaving you to slip away to your childhood bedroom, exhausted but buzzing from the wine and spinning with thoughts of Enjin, who’s still down in the basement with your dad and his. You lock the door.
Eight years of waiting. Eight years of listening to you talk about other people and dating other people. Throughout that time, you did learn a lot: that you like when people stimulate you intellectually, because Enjin does; you need someone who can talk you down from your anxiety spirals, because Enjin can; you need someone who knows what you want and what you need, sometimes before you even do, because Enjin does. He became the standard through those eight years, but he didn’t feel attainable, and maybe that was part of the ploy.
The floorboards in the hallway groan, and your door handle turns with an agonizingly slow speed, bypassing the creak in the door that never got fixed, despite the numerous times your dad has oiled it and Enjin replaced it.
Enjin slips in, the sharp scent of expensive cigars and far too much bourbon trailing him like a physical presence. You watch as he leans against the door, eyes closed as he takes deep breaths.
“You alright, baby?” Your small voice in the dark room snaps his eyes open in surprise.
He lets out a breathy laugh. “I—I should have known your ass wouldn’t be able to sleep without me.” His words are spoken slowly, carefully even, as he tries to focus on at least one of the three versions of you playing in his vision.
He groans, setting his head back against the door. “Our f–fucking dads got me d-drunk as shit.”
Enjin slides down the door frame until his back hits the wood with a dull thud, his long legs stretching out across your rug. The cool moonlight catches the sharp line of his jaw, highlighting the flush that has crept all the way up to his ears.
"Logistics," he mutters, the word coming out thick and tangled. "Tried to keep it together. Talked about... the future. Talked about intentions. Your pops kept pouring the top-shelf stuff like it was water."
You slip out from under your sheets, squatting in between his legs as you take him in. You’ve seen Enjin tipsy, buzzed, but never this far gone, his eyes blinking rapidly to stop the intense turning of his world. It’s refreshing, almost, watching a man so composed lose it all to way too much bourbon.
You stifle a giggle at the notion. “Let me grab you some sweats and water.” His hand catches you before you can move. His grip on your wrist is firm, even in his stupor. He pulls you down until you are straddling his lap on the rug.
He groans into the crook of your neck, his nose tracing your skin as he nuzzles deeper, seeking the scent of your body wash and the lotion he loves on you so much.
“No water,” he mumbles, his voice reverberating against your pulse point in a way that makes your breath hitch. “Don’t... don’t leave. Been sitting in that lounge for six hours acting like I’m not dying to get back to you.”
He exhales a long, shaky breath, the scent of bourbon and expensive cigars clouding the small space between you. His hands trail up your exposed thighs and under your large T-shirt. No panties, no bra. Just his shirt keeping him from seeing you in your rawest form. He presses a kiss right underneath your ear before resting his head on your shoulder.
“Your dad,” he starts, then stops, letting out a dry, drunken huff of a laugh. “He is a fucking tyrant. I told them. Told them I’ve had the ring picked out since I was eighteen. Your dad just laughed... told me to prove I could handle the quality of his cellar first before his daughter… kept pouring the bourbon. I think I’m dyin’, Baby.”
You can't help the quiet laugh that escapes you. "You aren't dying, Enjin," you whisper, pressing a kiss to his temple. "You’re fuckin’ plastered though."
He groans, the sound rumbling through your shoulder as his hands shift under your shirt. His palms are hot, his calloused thumbs tracing the curve of your hips with a leisurely, profound familiarity that says he doesn't need his vision to know exactly where he is and what his touch is doing to you.
"Eighteen," you murmur, the weight of that admission sinking in. While you were worried about freshman midterms and trying to find someone who felt even a fraction as safe as he did, he was already looking at diamonds. "You really are a piece of work."
"I'm a man who knows a good investment when he sees one," he mumbles, his voice thick and honey-slow. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his golden eyes struggling to stay open, hooded and hazy with a mixture of intoxication and pure, unadulterated devotion.
“I want to grab you clothes and put you to bed,” you begin, fingers hooking on the edge of his shirt and pulling it over his head. It is a welcome sight. His tattoos stand as dark lines against his skin, love bites sporadically placed in spaces not touched by ink. “But part of me wants to relish in your lack of control. To see how well you do when I’m the one on top.”
He lets out a low, rough sound that’s half-groan and half-surrender as the shirt is tossed aside. Stripped of the fabric, the heat radiating off his chest is intense, filling the small gap between you. His golden eyes track the movement of your hands with an unfocused hunger, pupils blown wide enough to swallow the iris whole.
"Princess," he breathes. He tries to sit up straighter against the door, but the effort makes the room tilt, and he ends up leaning his weight more heavily against the door. "You're playing... a dangerous game with a man who can't even see straight."
His hands, usually so precise and calculated, lag as they move from your hips to the small of your back, pulling you closer until there isn't a single breath of air between his bare skin and your T-shirt. He nuzzles into your collarbone, his teeth grazing the skin in a messy reminder of the sharp bites he gave you in the kitchen.
"Control," he mutters, his words trailing off into a huff of bourbon-scented breath against your neck. "I've spent ten years... perfecting it. If you want to take it, take it. Use it however you want, princess."
He shifts, his knees falling wider to give you more room in his lap, his head dropping back against the door with a dull thud. He looks up at you, his face flushed and vulnerable, yet there's a flicker of that possessive fire in his gaze.
"Do your worst," he challenges, his voice dropping into a thick, honeyed rasp. "See if I don't still manage to ruin you by morning."
You don't respond with words, only a slow, deliberate shift of your weight that draws a strangled groan from deep in his chest. You reach back, twisting your hair into a messy bun to clear the way, and the sight of your bare neck in the moonlight makes his breath hitch.
He’s a man caught between the spinning room and the singular, magnetic pull of you, and for the first time in eight years, he has no counter-strategy. This is probably one of very few chances he’ll give you the reins without conditions, so there’s no chance in hell you'll turn him down. You lean forward, pressing your chest against his bare, ink-covered torso. “Morning is a long time from now,” you coo, placing light kisses along his neck.
His eyes flutter shut as he tries to anchor himself to the sensation of your lips moving against his skin. Every feather-light kiss is a targeted strike against the last of his composure. He lets out a quiet, guttural growl when your lips find the sensitive dip above his collarbone, his head rolling to the side to give you better access. For a man who usually dictates every second of your interactions, seeing him reduced to these sharp, needy inhales is intoxicating. You place a firm bite right above the sensitive spot, moaning as his hands give your ass a firm squeeze in response.
You catch a glimpse of him through your lashes, taking in the way his bottom lip is tucked between his teeth and his eyebrows furrow in concentration. “Jinny, are you holding back on me?” you tease, slowly pressing your heat into his erection.
He exhales sharply, his hands sliding from your ass to your waist to anchor you firmly in his lap. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Princess,” he exhales, his eyes snapping open to pin you with that familiar, predatory focus. “The moment the world slows the fuck down, I’ll be reclaiming my lead.”
You simply smile adoringly at him, sliding your own T-shirt off in one fluid motion, watching as his eyes widen at the sight of you. Enjin’s eyes track the fabric of your shirt as it falls to the rug, his breath hitching in a sharp, staggered inhale that tells you the threads of his control are more than wearing thin. The moonlight streaming through your window hits the marks he’s left on you, the dark, constant marks of his possession, and for a moment, the room is so quiet you can hear the frantic, uneven thud of his heart.
"God, you're stunning,” he confesses, as he struggles to reconcile the spinning room with the sight of you completely bare in his lap. He trails a finger from your waist to the inner part of your thighs, your hand wraps around his wrist as his finger brushes against your clit. You jolt a bit against him, but the mischievous smirk on your lips doesn’t budge.
“Thank you, but before you can touch Jinny, and before I hand you the reins back— I want six facts from you. One for every hour you suffered while missing me, and I want them to mean something.” You remove his hands from your body, placing them on the side of him.
“Six?" he repeats, the word catching in his throat. He lets out a breathy laugh. "Alright, Professor. Let’s see if I can pass the test."
You maneuver off of his lap, your fingers hooking into the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers. Your heart is racing, a frantic mix of adrenaline and the sharp, focused need that has been building since you stepped into this house. You pull the fabric down, Enjin lifting his hips just enough to grant you the access you've been daydreaming about all afternoon.
A moan bubbles past your lips as you set him free. Precum glistens at the tip, and his piercing catches a stray beam of moonlight, flashing with a cold brilliance against the heat of his skin.
You position yourself on your stomach between his legs, the rug soft against your skin as you settle into a view that is entirely yours. From here, you have a perfect vantage point of his length and the way his face has completely unraveled. Enjin’s head is still resting against the door, his breath coming in slow, shallow hitches. He watches you through crescent lids, his focus hazy but heavy with a primal sort of devotion. He looks like a man who has finally stopped trying to calculate the next move and is simply waiting for you to ruin him.
“Fact one, sweetheart,” you demand, gliding your finger over his cockhead, collecting the precum and using it to slick the thick veins. His abs constrict at the delicate touch.
“Fact one,” he starts, “I–I started saving for our wedding in eighth grade.” A smile plays on your lips in an attempt to hide your surprise. The confession makes you press your legs together. A moan pulls from the back of his throat as he watches you lick him from base to tip.
“Fact two, don’t make me wait.” You maintain eye contact as you shift from delivering light kisses and licks to swallowing him in one go. Enjin’s toes curl, his thighs and abs twitching under your ministrations. Your mouth is a warm, wet envelope that never fails to make him see stars.
“F-fact two… your apartment, it’s ridiculously cheap because of a deal I made with the landlords,” the words are forced through gritted teeth. His breathing is uneven as you ignore your gag reflex and take him to the hilt, repeatedly. Your hand rotates in a rhythmic tandem with your mouth. Cheeks hollowed out and unshed tears blurring your vision, but you stay tunnel-visioned on Enjin, watching the way his eyes never leave you, how his eyebrows furrow in a mix of intense concentration and self-control.
“Fact three,” he exhales roughly, his knuckles turning white as he grips your rug. It’s taking everything in him not to wrap his hands in your hair and push himself deeper down your throat. “The motherfucker you gave your virginity to… I kicked his ass e-every day for a month straight—fuck baby, slow down,” he pleads.
You shake your head, grabbing one of his hands and placing it behind your head. A reward. You slip him out of your mouth for a moment and grin up at him. “Make those last three count before I milk you dry,” you command, your voice hoarse from your performance.
He lets out a moan that makes your cunt clench, his hand pushes your head down with guided care and control despite the overload of alcohol in his system. You choke as his piercing goes further with the assistance of his hand, causing you to moan around his girthy member.
Your free hand cups his balls, using the mix of your saliva and his precum as a perfect form of lube to knead them. The sound of your sucking echoes throughout the room; your hips rock against the floor in need, cunt aching for anything to satiate the emptiness. His moans only serve as further fuel to the fire, encouraging you to up the ante to get him to come undone beneath you.
“Fact four, I-I already have our wedding date picked out,” he chokes out, barely above a whisper as he fights to hold back his impending orgasm. “Fact f-five, I never wanted a future in which w-we weren’t together.”
Tears free-fall down your cheeks and your jaw is stretched beyond comprehension. Tremors run through you as you hear his moans increase in frequency—no longer held back by the biting of his lip as his final threads of restraint break.
“Fact si-six, your dad was right about one thing tonight... I-I’m one lucky sonofabitch—” his orgasm hits mid-sentence, ripping the rest of the words from him.
You take it. All of it. His cum is thick and slightly salty, but with an underlying taste that has you swallowing with hopes of pulling more from him. Your lips remain wrapped around him even after he’s done, sending his contents straight to your stomach. Overstimulation be damned, he lets you; lets you continue to swallow him until you’ve cleaned him off.
His hand is still resting on your head. It only moves when you press a final kiss to his now semi-hard length. Your breathing is just as ragged as his, your heart thrumming and your pussy drenching the space underneath you.
“Come here,” he calls out softly, his eyes practically closed as he tries to reconcile with the world, finally, slowing down from when he first entered the room. You crawl up into his lap and your cunt brushes against him, allowing him to feel the way he affects you even when he isn't actively touching you.
His hands trail up your sides, cupping underneath your breast. “We’ll have a lot to talk about in the morning, handsome,” you gasp. He smiles lazily.
“L-long time from now,” he counters, thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples before claiming one in his mouth. It elicits a shaky moan out of you. Your fingers weave into the threads of his hair, pushing your chest further in his face. He nips and licks like a man on a mission before alternating to the other.
You hum in agreement, your hips rocking against his stomach with his dick pressed against your ass. He bites down sharply before pulling away to glance up at you. His chin rests right in between the valley of your breast. “Bed or floor?” he mumbles softly, a hand trails down over your ass and in between your wet folds. He groans as a finger slips in with no resistance. You’re soaking, drenched even.
You whine at the teasing way he pulls his finger back. He drags the pad of his thumb over your clit, watching the way your lips part to release an unrestrained moan. Your hips buck against his torso.
“Floor, p-please,” you gasp, the last word comes out barely audible as he roughly shoves two fingers inside of you. Your body trembles. Your cunt flutters around him in appreciation at finally having something to fill the void. You roll your hips against him, actively trying to chase the sensations. “O-oh f-fuck Jinny,” you breathe out shakily.
“I hope you enjoyed your power trip. I have all the intention of ruining you thoroughly before the sun rises,” he murmurs.
—-
Cold. Your eyes snap open, eyebrows furrowing in confusion as your fingers grip the empty space beside you. Enjin. You glance at your Barbie clock: 4:09 AM. It’s only been roughly forty-five minutes since you both called it a night.
You climb out of bed carefully, a low groan pulling from your chest, your back and inner thighs both pulsing with soreness and an all too familiar ache. But the concern buzzing in the back of your mind drives you to slip outside of your bedroom. The bathroom is located to the left of your room, the lights on, but the sound of water nonexistent.
You step gingerly over the floorboards, avoiding the creaking ones successfully. The doorknob is cool in your grip, the polarization of temperatures jolts you awake a bit more. When you push the bathroom door open, the sight makes your heart drop.
Enjin’s on the floor, leaning his head back against the wall beside the toilet. His eyes are tightly shut, head tilted back against the wall. His skin is pale and slick with a fine sheen of sweat that leaves his hair sticking to his forehead. One leg is propped up, and his arm is loosely draped over his knee as he struggles to keep what’s left of the contents of his stomach down. He looks completely wrecked, the sheer volume of the bourbon returning in full to collect what’s owed now that the adrenaline has faded.
“Jin,” you whisper, kneeling on the tile beside him. The floor is freezing against your knees, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating off of him.
“Sorry, Princess,” he rasps, his voice broken—a sandpaper ghost of what it was an hour ago. “Really…” he stops, swallows hard, his breath stuttering as his stomach turns again.
“I thought I put your ass to sleep for the night,” he lets out a shaky, rough breath. The dark, fresh marks on his neck and shoulders stand out vividly in the harsh light, a stark reminder of the intensity he’d poured into you before you passed out and his body finally caved.
You reach out, brushing the damp hair from his forehead. He looks so vulnerable. “You did, but you took the heater when you left,” you tease softly.
A phantom of a smile pulls at his lips. “I think the bourbon won, princess,” he mutters, finally opening his eyes to look at you. His eyes are red, but his irises have started to return. You reach over him, turning the shower on. The sound of the spray fills the space; you adjust the temperature to be borderline scalding in hopes of pulling enough steam from the contraption to help him feel better.
“It may have won the battle, but you’ve certainly won the war. Now, stay right here, Jin,” you whisper, placing a light kiss to the tip of his nose.
You move quickly, despite the heaviness in your legs. In your room, you grab a pair of boxers and flannel pajama pants for him, skipping the shirt—he’ll just peel it off in the middle of the night anyway. You tread carefully downstairs, bypassing the guest room where his parents are sleeping, and slip into the laundry room. His clothes and towel go into the dryer. Making a pit stop to the kitchen, you turn the Keurig on for hot water, letting that take its time while you dig for a BC powder in the kitchen medical drawer. Then you’re back upstairs.
Your closet yields a fresh pair of sheets and a comforter tucked neatly on the top shelf. You strip the bed and replace the old linens with the ones that carry the faint scent of your mother’s favorite fabric softener—proof she’d stashed them there recently. A glance at the clock: 4:22. You pick up the pace.
Sheets in hand, you head downstairs again, tossing them into the washer with detergent and softener. Jin’s clothes come out of the dryer, and you’re practically sprinting back upstairs. You open the bathroom door, slipping inside and closing it softly. “You okay, my baby?” you call out over the intense steam circulating around the bathroom, placing his items on the counter beside his toothbrush.
You pull the shower curtain back, revealing Enjin directly underneath the showerhead, eyes closed as he allows the water to wash away the soap suds. “Your baby is fighting for his life, and not to alarm you… but I don't think I’m winning,” his voice is worse than before, more hoarse than audible, as if he’s talking through a Wendy’s drive-thru window speaker.
“Oh honey,” you slip a hand under his chin, turning his head towards you. He hums in acknowledgment, staring down at you through wet lashes. “Come here and let me take care of you,” you instruct, already moving to turn the water off. You pull the curtain all the way back; he places a hand on your shoulder for balance as he climbs over the bathtub.
His eyes are bloodshot, but there is clarity in them now. He groans as he wraps the towel around his waist. “You’re too good to me,” he breathes. You only grin up at him, pressing a gentle kiss to his shoulder as he starts to brush his teeth.
“I just like to match your fly. I have to go grab two things, so by the time you’re done I’ll be back,” you’re already halfway out the door as your words start to register in his mind.
You make one last trip downstairs to acquire his warm water and medicine, double-checking your work to ensure it looks like you weren’t rummaging around after your mom closed up shop to keep it pristine for tomorrow’s guests.
By the time you make it back up the stairs, the bathroom door opens. Enjin steps into the hall with slow steps–half in an attempt to avoid the squeaking parts of the floorboards and half because his legs feel uncertain under his weight.
Your footsteps are right behind him, shutting the door with a quiet, practiced ease. He crawls under the covers with an appreciative groan. “And she changed the sheets… bring your fine ass here,” he demands, a playful edge woven into his words as he pats the open space beside him.
You set the items down on the nightstand beside him, then crawl over his large form to your rightful place. “I brought you warm water and BC powder,” you mutter gently. He hums, adjusting you in his arms to use your chest as a pillow, tucking his head underneath your chin and burying his nose in your neck.
“I-I can't guarantee it'll stay down, so I'll wait a bit,” he mumbles, his lips brushing against your skin with every syllable. “I love you, Princess.”
You trail lazy strokes down his back, smiling to yourself as you pull him close, “I love you, Jin.”
He squeezes you weakly in acknowledgment, your heartbeat finally louder than the blood rushing in his ears, serving as the perfect lullaby.
The room is dim, the heavy curtains blocking out most of the early morning glare, but the house around you is waking up with a vengeance. The floorboards in the hallway groan under heavy footsteps, and the distant clatter of ceramic against granite drifts up from the kitchen.
A sharp, rhythmic knock at the door breaks the silence, your eyes snapping open at the disturbance. 6:15 AM. An hour and some change of sleep. A nap, practically. You’re pinned under the weight of Enjin’s arm and half of his body weight as he substitutes his pillow for you. He doesn’t twitch. His breathing doesn’t change. The alcohol and its repercussions have overpowered his internal clock.
"Y/n? Honey, wake up," your mother’s voice calls out, muffled but bright. "Your brothers have landed. They’re downstairs tearing into the bacon already, and your father is looking for his ‘drinking buddy.' Breakfast is on the table."
You let out a small whine in dissatisfaction. Thanksgiving always starts with a family breakfast. They will just keep knocking until the whole family is at the table—a true tragedy. Because silence and sleep underneath the warmth of Enjin calls to you like a siren sings to a sailor, but much like a random sailor, it’s rather precarious to listen to the sweet lull of sleep.
"Y/n? Enjin?" your mom prompts again, her voice lingering near the wood of the door. "Don't make me send Roy up here to drag the two of you down. He’s also ready for his run with Enjin after breakfast."
“We're coming, Mom!" you call back, your voice sounding a bit raspier than your usual morning voice. Your mother walks away from the door with a small smile and a shake of her head, already foreseeing the conversation that’s sure to take place when your brothers hear you.
Enjin doesn't even open his eyes when your mother’s footsteps retreat down the hall. He just shifts, his large frame rolling slightly off of you as he feels you wiggle. “Bathroom?” he mumbles quietly.
You brush stray hairs from his forehead and press a kiss against his temple. “Breakfast, the boys have arrived. Dad’s looking for you, and your dad is ready to go on your annual run afterwards,” you inform, careful of the volume of your voice as you see him visibly wince the more he moves.
"Fifteen minutes," he rasps, his voice a gravelly vibration that sounds more like a prayer than a promise. "Just... fifteen. I’ll meet you down there."
He doesn't let go of you immediately. Instead, he leans forward, burying his face against your side for a fleeting second to press a faint, lingering kiss to your skin through the fabric of your shirt. It’s a soft, sleepy gesture, before he exhales a long, shuddering breath and sinks straight back into the mattress. Within seconds, his breathing evens out into the deep, rhythmic thrum of someone who is well and truly dead to the world.
Stepping out of the room and closing the door softly behind you, you feel the shift in atmosphere the second your foot hits the top stair. The quiet sanctuary of your bedroom is replaced by the clatter of silverware, the smell of bacon, and the unmistakable roar of your brothers’ laughter.
"Look who finally decided to join the living," your oldest brother, Ace, calls out, leaning back in his chair with a smirk that says he’s been rehearsing his opening statement for an hour. He looks past you toward the empty hallway. "Where is your shadow? Dad said he outdrank Jin last night, but I didn’t think it was bad enough to fuck up his routine,” he follows up, as you settle in your chair.
You watch as your mother places a plate full of your favorites in front of you and Kai pours you a glass of orange juice. Both ladies move in tandem like well-oiled machines before heading back into the kitchen.
You take a slow, cautious sip of your orange juice, your usual brain processing speed at an all-time low as you reconcile with the fact that you’re awake: covered in love bites, bruises, and a soreness in your walk that is unmistakable for either riding a bike for too long or being split open by a dick of monstrous proportions–no in-between, and they know damn well you don’t bike ride. In addition to sitting across from them without the cause of these predicaments. “He’ll be down in fifteen,” the words are choppy even to your own ears, every other syllable airy and without diction. Maybe deepthroating him twice in one night was a bit too much.
"Fifteen minutes, huh?" Cas, the second eldest, repeats, his voice a smooth, mocking drawl as he reaches for another piece of bacon. He pointedly tracks the way you’re holding that glass of juice like a lifeline, his eyes lingering on the faint, dark shadow peeking out from the collar of your shirt before moving back to your face. "That’s optimistic. I’ve seen him after a heavy night with the boys, but he’s usually at least upright. Meanwhile, you look like you’ve been through a whirlwind, Sis. You were drinking too?"
Drinking? In a way, perhaps. You did drink Enjin for all that he was worth, and maybe by proxy got drunk through his content. Who’s to say and who’s to really know. It feels like you are drunk from the way he left you a mess of limbs, tears, and incoherency, especially when he took his control back. And God, did he take his control back. He fucks you like he hates you and touches you like he loves you. The dull, satisfied ache settling into your hips and thighs serves as a blessing and a curse as you sit in the wooden chair.
“Y/n?" Cas prods, snapping his fingers in front of your face. "Earth to Y/n. You look as if you’re remembering a war flashback. Did Jin survive the night, or do we need to go check for a pulse?"
"He's fine," you manage, your voice coming out hoarsely. You clear your throat, trying to find your baseline. "He just... needed a second. He was pretty far gone when he finally made it upstairs."
Rudo hums, a wicked glint in his eyes as he thinks about what that means in the world of his brother. “A second, huh? I’ve never known my favorite wayward brother to need such a thing. Which,” he pauses to wipe his mouth, “now that I’m thinking about him, when I got in this morning, I could have sworn I heard some moving around last night while I slept on the couch. How late were y’all up?”
You shift uncomfortably under the weight of their gazes, and the boys catch the way your face scrunches up in response to the movement. You hadn’t seen anyone on the couch this morning, nor did you look, so his statement hits like a bucket of cold water. While your room is some distance from your parents, the stairs are right there, and therefore, so is the entrance to the living room. He could have heard many things this morning depending on the time. Anytime before 2:00 AM, you and Enjin were learning why the girl from TikTok was right about floor sex. Between 2:30 and 3:00, you were in the bathroom doing anything but getting clean for the first thirty minutes.
“I-I don’t recall. Probably was during a bathroom run…” you mumble absentmindedly, your brain split between reminiscing and trying to cover your asses.
Ace raises an eyebrow. Your father chuckles. Cas snorts and Rudo simply smirks. “Bathroom run… right?” he muses, settling back into his chair.
“You know,” Cas starts, leaning forward and setting his elbows on the table. “Sis, you’re usually a better liar than this. So, what’s really going on, huh? And don’t tell me you just stayed up late talking.”
"We were talking," you insist, though the rasp in your voice betrays you the moment the words leave your throat.
Ace lets out a sharp, incredulous bark of a laugh. "Talking? Sis, you sound like you spent the night cheering at a football game. What were you talking about that required that much vocal projection?"
A response is lost upon you at the call-out. All of the components in your brain in charge of decision-making crash like a bat out of hell. The sound of footsteps saves you, but only momentarily.
Enjin doesn't walk into the kitchen so much as he drifts—a tall, blonde ghost in a pair of running shorts and a dri-fit T-shirt, matching the attire of the other gentlemen at the table. He’s the picture of a man who’s been fighting for his life for the past several hours and has been scarcely winning.
He navigates the space with a sluggish, agonizing caution, his hand sliding along the wall for balance until he reaches the back of your chair. He doesn't say a word; he just sinks into the seat beside you, his large frame slumping forward until his forehead comes to rest against the cool wood of the table.
“There goes the prodigal son,” Rudo calls out excitedly. “Fifteen minutes on the dot, huh? Truly impressive, and dressed for a run?”
Roy grins, looking at his son with a mixture of amusement and pride. He saw how he left the basement last night: face flushed, coordination off-center, but full of conviction as he explained to his best friend’s dad why he’s the perfect man for her and what his intentions are now that he has her. Which makes him sitting at the table, or just vertical in general, that much more impressive.
Enjin lets out a quiet, vibration-heavy groan into the tabletop. He doesn't lift his head. He just raises one hand, blindly reaching out across the space until his fingers find your forearm. He anchors himself to you, his grip desperate and heavy.
"Water," he pleads, the word barely a ghost of a sound. "Need... water. Brain is... vibrating."
Your dad lets out a hearty laugh alongside Roy. “I told you, kid, you’d regret it in the morning, but you’ll be grateful for the rest of your life–and maybe sober too?” he bellows.
You wince at the volume of his voice, but you refrain from commenting, fixing Enjin a glass of water and pressing it into his hand. “Drink, Jinny, you’ll feel better after water, toast, and did you take the BC powder?” you mutter softly.
He just shifts his head slightly on the wood of the table, opening one eye to catch a glimpse of you. Your look of concern, the flushness coating your cheeks, and the disheveled appearance let him know you simply rolled out of bed and sat down. Your hair covers some of the marks he doesn’t remember making, particularly the glaringly large one right at the base of your throat. Pretty, even in a state of being undone.
“I did, thank you, baby,” his lips turn into a warm grin that makes your heart skip a beat. You smile back, nodding and pressing the cool glass to him more firmly.
"Baby?" Cas whispers, the mockery in his voice replaced by a sudden, sharp clarity. He looks at your father, who is currently busy taking a very long, very calm sip of his coffee. "Did he just... since when is she 'Baby,' Jin?"
You freeze, and so does the rest of the room aside from your parents.
Enjin finally sits upright. It’s slow, a grinding effort of will, but he does it. He takes the glass into his hands and downs it like it’s his only lifeline. His brain feels as if it’s vibrating and his body is still coming to terms with the remnants of your dad’s wine cellar.
Cas’s question still hangs in the air, thick and demanding, but Enjin doesn't look at him. He sets the glass down on the granite with a deliberate, controlled thud, before sinking in his chair and resting his head on your shoulder. His eyes flutter, trying to find peace among the glare of the early morning sun shining into the open patio window and with his decision of drinking so much liquor that he’s woken up intoxicated still.
“Been a minute,” he exhales, finally settling on simply closing his eyes for the time being. No need to look at anyone that isn’t you at this moment anyways. Your brothers turn their attention to you. Still frozen. Eyes wide. Mouth open. Like a deer caught in the headlights.
“Y/n? He’s not gonna answer us, so you have to. What the hell does ‘been a minute’ fuckin’ mean?” Ace questions, his voice flat. You inhale shakily, turning your attention to Enjin who’s still fighting a battle he doesn’t seem to be winning anytime soon.
“I–” the words die in your throat as he shifts on your shoulder. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you until you’re halfway in your chair and halfway in his lap. You adjust accordingly, settling entirely into where he wants you.
“Give me… five… five minutes of fucking silence,” he commands, before nuzzling his head in your neck much to the jargon of everyone else.
The silence he demanded is absolute, but it’s the heavy, suffocating kind that feels like the preamble to a storm. Your brothers are staring at the two of you, at the way Enjin has essentially dragged you into his orbit without even opening his eyes, and the way you’ve just... settled there. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to be a human pillow for a man who looks like he’s been through a physical and emotional blender.
"Five minutes?" Ace whispers, the word coming out sharp and jagged. "Y/n, you’re halfway in his lap. At the breakfast table. In front of Dad, and I just know Mom can see this from her position in the kitchen. And you’re just... letting him?"
"That wasn't a 'bathroom run' on the floorboards, was it?" Rudo asks, his voice dropping the playful edge. He looks at your father, who is still calmly nursing his coffee, looking entirely too unbothered.
Your father glances up, tapping his finger on the rim of his mug. A look of pure amusement dances across his features. "He said he needed five minutes of silence, Boys. I’d suggest you give it to him. He’s had a long night of proving he’s man enough to handle this family beyond a platonic sense. If he wants to hold his girl while he recovers, that’s his business."
The word "his girl" hits the table like a lead weight. You have always been Enjin’s girl—his best friend, his shadow, his partner-in-crime. But you had never been whatever the hell this is playing out in front of them.
“Boys, quiet down," Kai’s voice cuts through the room, quiet but final as she steps back out of the kitchen with a fresh carafe of juice. She doesn't look surprised. She looks at you with a soft, knowing tilt of her head before glancing at Enjin. "The boy is exhausted. Let them be."
Rudo chuckles at his mother’s words. “Ma, dude is tired because after drinking with our dads he went and did a Tour de France with Y/n! And we know dang well the princess isn’t riding no bike.”
His words practically send your soul into the afterlife.
You stay pinned to the spot, eyes fixed on a single stray crumb on the tablecloth, feeling the heat of the room rise until your skin feels like it’s glowing. You’re certain your heart is visible through your shirt, thudding against Enjin’s chest as he holds you.
Roy lets out a sharp, sudden bark of a laugh that he tries to cover with a cough, but your father doesn't even bother. He just leans back, looking at Rudo with a look of pure, unadulterated mischief.
"Technically," your dad muses, his voice booming in the quiet kitchen, "I believe the race was a sprint, not a marathon, if the timing of the floorboards was any indication."
"Dad!" you gasp, the sound coming out as a tiny, horrified wheeze. It was only after your first orgasm on the floor did you realize the bed would hide the sounds of your sexcapade a lot better.
Enjin doesn't move his head from your neck, but you feel his lips curve into a slow, wicked grin against your skin. The vibration of his silent chuckle travels through your collarbone. He isn't embarrassed. He isn't even trying to hide it. He just tightens his arm around your waist, pulling you so flush against him that there isn’t a breath of air left between your bodies.
"Rudo," Enjin starts, the name coming out like a warning. "If you don't shut the hell up… I’m gonna show you how I won the race.”
“Race? So you're admitting it?" Cas barks, pointing a fork at the two of you. "Dad, he basically just confirmed the Tour de France! They were upstairs knocking boots. Under your roof! While you were sleeping! While I was slee–”
It’s quick. You’re not sure how he does it. Barely even feel him, but you watch the piece of jelly-covered toast stick to Cas’s face.
And Cas just sits there. Frozen. The crust of the toast still clings to his cheek while a slow, sticky glob of grape jelly slides toward his jawline.
Enjin doesn't even lift his head from your shoulder. His hand is already back on your waist, his fingers digging into your hip as if he never moved at all. The speed of the throw was surgical—the kind of accuracy that comes from a man who spent his childhood throwing fastballs and his adulthood calculating strikes.
"I said," Enjin rasps, his voice dropping into a dark, velvet register that rings through your entire body, "five minutes of silence."
The table is a crime scene. Rudo is shaking, his shoulders trembling as he tries to swallow a laugh that would probably get him a plate of eggs to the forehead. Ace is looking between the jelly on Cas’s face and the "prodigal son" currently using his sister as a bolster, his eyes wide with a new, horrified respect.
Enjin has always been a rather loose cannon in the family, one that the boys could never truly predict. While he’s the third in line as the oldest when combining your two families, he was always treated as the eldest. Elaborate tattoos before graduation? Of course. Smoking by the age of sixteen? Naturally. Having a job before even starting high school? Duh. He just always seems to have a mind that is several steps above anyone else they would ever know.
Which leads to several epiphanies between the men at the table: this was never a matter of how, but when? Their parents all knew. And, somehow, in the twenty years they have known both Enjin and you, they missed this coming entirely–and yet the pairing makes perfect sense.
Five minutes are up.
Enjin releases a slow, cool stream of air through his mouth before sitting up. His gaze is clearer and his expression is softer. One arm remains heavy on your waist, and the other moves to refill his water glass. “Thank you,” he mutters, before pressing the cup to his lips and knocking it back. His body is still thrumming with the echoes of bourbon, but his mind is a smidge quieter-–and that’s what matters the most at the moment.
“How long have you been crackin’ my sister?” Cas shoots out.
He winces at Cas’s volume, “couple months and no need to fucking yell.”
Cas rolls his eyes, aggressively stabbing his pancake as he lets the timeline settle. Ace and Rudo’s eyes widen in surprise. “No way, that means when we came down for Halloween, y’all were together? Why the heck didn’t you say something?” Rudo questions, mouth open in shock. “Princess, Y/n, I thought we were closer than this?”
You roll your eyes at his dramatics, “It wasn’t time yet… besides, neither you nor Ace can hold water. Mom, dad, Aunt Kai, Uncle Roy, the elderly ladies at church, the mailman, and everyone else and their damn mama would have known before we were ready to share.”
He huffs at your statement, but he doesn’t rebut.
“And when did mom and dad find out? And you know what, why are we all acting like it’s okay for them to be fucking while we’re sleeping?” Ace follows up, both hands resting on top of his low-cut fade as he whips his head from your dad to Uncle Roy.
Roy looks at your dad and then back to Enjin who’s oscillating between burying himself in your skin and remembering that he needs to hydrate to flush his system. “Well,” Roy starts, setting his cup of coffee down. “The agreement was that if Enjin could walk out of the room by the time the bottles were done, without waking up your mother and his, then all future actions over the next 24 hours would be voided. And guess who successfully made it up those stairs without waking anyone?”
You glance up at Enjin as he finishes another glass of water. What the hell happened in that room last night? His relaxed nature makes your eyebrow twitch. How is he so calm with all of this? He only smiles as he watches the questions begin to dance across your features. You’re cute when you’re curious.
“The perks of being the prodigal son,” Rudo grumbles, but there’s no bite in his words. If anything, he’s always been ecstatic that Enjin was the one born to carry the weight of their parents' expectations. Because Enjin is such a go-getter, over-achiever, weirdly complex individual, his parents have allowed him to be the free-spirit teenage sloth he’s always desired to be—and it’s been wonderful. “Well, I’m happy for you both. It’s about time Y/n stops bringing bum-ass, sorry-ass, weird-ass partners back to the house.” His statement elicits hearty laughs from all the men and even a quiet chuckle from Enjin.
You narrow your eyes at Rudo, “Brave comment coming from the boy who has only been dating girls that look like Riyo,” you point out. The retort earns a choked laugh from Cas, a snort from Ace, and a light pinch from Enjin that makes you yelp.
“Play nice,” he reminds softly.
You huff, giving Rudo a pointed look, “him first.”
Rudo raises his arms in mock-surrender as Enjin’s sharp gaze turns to him and back to you. No further warning necessary, he backs down.
“I guess it makes sense, I mean if anyone can handle the princess it’s Enjin. You know, as I’m sitting here mind-blown, trying to wrap my head around all of this, it really is starting to connect,” Ace muses. “He can afford her lifestyle, he practically is solo-funding it if you ask me—like, when was the last time Y/n has asked me for money—”
“I’ve never asked you for money,” you cut off, giving him a side-eye while munching on a piece of bacon.
“Exactly,” he continues. “Because Enjin is like your walking wallet. I just thought it was him performing his brotherly duties, but now I’m not so sure. I mean, he even has that deal going with your landlord—”
“Wait a second! Does everyone but me know about your deal with the landlord?” you interrupt once again, eyes the size of saucers as you wiggle Enjin’s head off your shoulder to look at him properly.
Cas snickers, “Don’t tell me you thought you were living in a high-rise at that ridiculously stupid price by sheer luck?... Oh my goodness, you did. Dad, are you sure this is your gifted child?”
Your dad simply shakes his head, “She is… she really is. But to be fair, it’s not like Enjin went out of his way to tell her.”
“I didn’t think it was important. It’s not like it changed anything, and I got a good contract out of it,” he murmurs. He presses a kiss to your temple. “You wanted to be independent and I wanted you to have what you wanted, so I made it happen. Don’t think too hard about it, Baby.”
You open your mouth to respond, but Roy cuts in. “Alright, boys. I’ve given Enjin enough time to shake back, it’s family run time. If we lag around any longer it’s going to mess up the schedule Kai made, and I don’t think any of us want that to happen on such a joyous holiday.” His words get the rest of the boys on alert as they check their watches—half past seven.
Enjin places you carefully back in your chair, “We can talk about everything else swirling in that head of yours when I get back, alright?” He ruffles your hair as you nod in agreement.
And oh, how y’all will talk.
The energy leaves with them, leaving you in the quiet sanctuary of the early morning light and the rhythmic sounds of your mothers navigating throughout the kitchen.
“You alright in there, sweetheart?” your mom calls out, peeking her head in the pass-through-window that overlooks the dining area. You lean your head back on the chair. Loaded question.
“Y-yeah, just settling into this new reality. You know?”
She hums in understanding, going around the wall to stand behind your chair. She wraps her arms around you. “You’ll adjust. Telling the family makes it more real, doesn’t it?” You nod in agreement, and she continues. “It’s probably the reason why you didn’t tell your brothers and why Enjin didn’t tell Rudo. It’s better to adjust within the realms of one another without the influence and voices of others. But, with that being said, you’re in the presence of family that doesn’t change even with your relationship title changing. You’re still our princess, our genius, and our little smartass.”
“Wow, really missed you and all your wisdom, Ma,” you whisper, nuzzling your cheek against her arm. “It’s weird… realizing you guys were all in on it and realizing the boys had no idea, but did in a weird way? And, gosh, don’t let me forget to add that he’s been pining for years. Years. How do I reconcile with that? I was just a dummy for—”
“Ah, ah, none of that language, young lady,” she chastises. “You were growing up and finding yourself, just like he wanted. And his behavior was so second nature to you that it was your version of normal, and it’s not like you had anyone to really compare his behavior to. I didn’t birth you any sisters, just two knucklehead brothers who are a different caliber of individuals when compared to Enjin’s uniqueness, so it’s not even a fair comparison…” She trails off, suddenly unsure of where she was going with this.
“I think what I’m trying to say is that you got the guy, and not just any guy, but the one who knows you better than the back of his hand. The one who has proven time and time again that he’s willing to move mountains and the heavens themselves to make sure you’re okay, and I think that’s what counts the most,” she concludes, smoothing the top of your braids before placing a kiss to your forehead.
You nod, grinning up at her. “Yeah, I’m just thinking too much since I didn’t sleep well. But that’s okay! Let’s turn on some Mary J. Blige and really get the day going before everybody rolls up on us.” The uncertainty is gone from your voice, replaced with excitement as you stand up from your chair, hands moving to begin cleaning up the mess the boys left upon their departure.
“That’s what I’m talking about, lil' bit,” Kai exclaims, stepping out from the kitchen with flour in her wild-colored hair and a ‘kiss the chef’ apron tied tightly around her waist. “Hey Alexa, play ‘Just Fine’ by Mary J. Blige,” she demands. She takes the dirty dishes from your hand and hands you Tupperware to slip the remnants of breakfast into.
The kitchen and dining room transform into a high-energy cacophony of sounds as you all sing your hearts out to the Queen of Hip-Hop Soul. Soon the space has been shaped into a proper dining table with your mom’s favorite tablecloths and hosting dishware laid out; an extra table has been extended to the end to fit roughly twenty people instead of your usual nine. You move from setting up to dessert duty.
You reference your grandmother’s messy calligraphy as you alternate between whipping up a batch of banana pudding and peach cobbler. “Mommy, Grandma isn’t coming this year, right?” you question, eyes lingering on the cobbler’s call for two tablespoons of salt, which feels like a tablespoon too much.
“She’s going to your uncle's this year since your aunt is coming here. Said something about wanting to make sure he and his wife aren't feeding them babies raw carrots and organic fruit snacks as a Thanksgiving meal supplement,” she explains. You snicker under your breath, foregoing the amount of salt for just a simple pinch.
Kai giggles, “They do have a rather rustic food palette… remember Christmas three years ago? They brought that kale and vinegar ‘entree’ with sunflower seeds. I felt like I was an imprisoned bunny rabbit.” She shivers at the memory of the bitter dish.
“God, that was a nightmare, but so was the wedding!” your mom adds. You bask in her storytelling, soaking in the wild stories they share about the crazy members that compromise both of their families.
Time flies. By the time the boys return from their run, the banana pudding is setting in the fridge and the cobbler is on a cooling tray. They enter through the back door, all sweaty, winded, and loud.
“I thought he was going to fucking die out there,” Cas cackles.
“I just can’t believe he threw up in Ms. Susan’s rose gardens,” Rudo states.
Your ears perk at the mention of throw-up. Wiping your hands on the Barbie-pink apron your mom tied around you, you glance at them through the window, eyebrows furrowed as you don’t see Enjin. “Where’s—”
“Pretty boy most likely went through the front door. He’s probably already in the shower. I don’t know how he ran those five miles drunk, but despite throwing up twice, he beat us here,” Ace calls out over his glass of water.
You turn on your heels, practically jogging as you race up the stairs. The bathroom door is open, but steam still clings to the air. You open your bedroom door, exhaling at the sight of him. A pair of tailored black trousers rest on his hips, right underneath his Calvin band. His back muscles constrict as he slips into an olive green, short-sleeve button-up.
“The boys said you threw up. You alright, handsome?” You close the door behind you, grinning as you see your clothes for the day laid out on the made-up bed.
He chuckles, “Fucking snitches. I’m alright, Princess.” He turns around, giving you the perfect view of his sculpted chest. You close the distance between the two of you, your hands finding purchase on his pecs, gently pushing him backward until the back of his knees hit your bed. He watches with merriment, not resisting as you force him to lay down.
You climb on top, keeping your hands stationed right on the firm planes of his chest. “Why’d you sneak in like a thief instead of telling us you were back?” you question, staring him down.
Enjin simply smirks, “I needed that shower like you need me to go to sleep. Besides, when I peeked into the kitchen y’all were wrapped up in your gossip. Didn’t want to interrupt your flow state.”
You give a playful bounce at his statement, “Not a good enough excuse. I could have gotten you some water. You didn’t even eat breakfast, so I could have warmed your plate up—” Your words die in your throat as his smirk turns into one of his charming smiles—the ones he reserves for when he wants something and knows that you’ll give it to him, no matter the ask.
He trails a hand under your shirt and to the middle of your back. He presses down gingerly, guiding you to lay down right on his heartbeat. He takes one deep inhale and a quiet groan slips past his lips. “I’m alright, promise. I just need to lay with you like this for a while, please?”
You brush your lips over his heartbeat before really settling against him. One of your hands tangles in the damp threads of his hair and the other sneaks under his back. “You’re lucky you’re attractive,” you grumble.
“You’ve just dated uglier,” his comment makes you tug on his hair half-heartedly.
You huff dryly, “We’re not even going down your rather robust previous sexual conquests, you little shit. Now close those pretty eyes and that mouth of yours before I start biting.”
He lets out a small laugh, wrapping himself tighter around you.
I would say Fin but there's technically a part two and three to this...I'm trying lmaooo.
I was so engrossed with this dynamic that I iust kept adding so it lead to a delay in sharing with those that asked and my bad about that team.
Mack💕
@jinjen @chestnutcobra49
MDNI 18+ 20k words
P R E C I S I O N
Zuko x Baddie!Reader
Synopsis: The only eight-counts you're confident in performing are in the bedroom, but you'll work hard on the dance floor too with your man backing you up.
Tags: fingering, dirty talk, oral ( f & m receiving) bigdick Zuko, mostly plot/ smut, manhandling, fluff, swearing, modern au, fem!reader , pet names, soft dom!Zuko.
Soo not proofread
Hot and sweaty. Your sports bra is drenched, your mini-shorts have reached an uncomfortable level of tight and annoying, and your knees are starting to throb as you force yourself off the laminated flooring. You hold in every complaint, chanting to yourself that this is all for Suki.
“Ladies, look at my form. You see how my hips are just barely lifting me off the ground? My hips are making a small tent, if you will, as I raise them and round them. My ankles are crossed and my toes are pointed. I don’t want to see anyone's ass just tooted in the air, because that’s not the sensual picture we’re creating here,” Suki instructs while demonstrating. “Then I want you to push off with your left hand. Keep everything nice and tight as you roll—right leg goes up, right hand goes out. We’re doing the crybaby; I don’t think I can explain that any simpler.”
You nod, and so do the fellow dancers beside you. All agreement, no back talk. Everyone is acutely aware that the Captain of the Kyoshi Warriors dance team is not in competition mode, but something deadlier. Something far more serious and detrimental to a woman’s psyche: wedding mode.
It’s why no one has mentioned that it’s hotter than the crack of Satan’s ass, or how a miniature heatwave seems to be forming in the middle of the room. It’s gotten so hot that any clothing not crucial for basic modesty has been stripped away, and all heels have been abandoned.
You yourself have downed four bottles of water in hopes of cooling off, but five hours of continuous dance rehearsal now has you seeing double. Your throat is dry, your body is sticky, and you’re certain if you stepped outside of this building, steam would rise from your skin due to the atmospheric difference.
The ladies around you are faring no better. Movements and momentum are slowing down. No one is speaking unless spoken to; for once, silence has fallen over a usually rambunctious group of women.
“Alright, let’s start from the top. I want precision, girls. We’re aiming for sensual, teasing, and tasteful—loose limbs and lagging are not a part of those components,” Suki states, her voice oozing authority, leaving absolutely no room for objections.
As she goes to start the song from the beginning, the door swings open, breaking the stifling silence. Tall and regal, Kyoshi herself stands in the doorway.
“Afternoon, ladies. I’m locking up the building and kicking everyone out. Amilia had a girl in the room over pass out from the temperature. I have someone coming in on Monday, but the studio will be closed for the weekend. Can’t have y’all dropping like flies—which,” her words pause, her sharp gaze taking in the sight of each melted dancer in front of her, “now Suki, you look like you’re killing them. You all look one move away from dropping. Out!”
The lack of hesitation in everyone’s movements leaves Suki’s mouth agape. You grab your gym bag, phone, and heels. You slip into a pair of slippers, letting out a soft moan as the memory foam cushions your tired feet.
“I–I. My back up studio is booked for the next three weeks and we cannot afford to not practice as a team. We’re down to the wire—”
Kyoshi simply lifts her hand, instantly quieting Suki’s ramble. "I hear you, but it’s a safety hazard at this rate. The building is reading at 97 degrees. I can only imagine how it feels to you all after dancing straight for five hours." She pauses, her gaze softening as she peers at Suki. "As captain, safety comes first, no exceptions, no backtalk, no shortcuts."
Suki nods, slowly glancing around the room to see the state she’s put y’all in. You offer a smile that’s just as shaky as your entire body feels.
Your phone buzzes in your hand with a simple ‘be right there’ text from Zuko. The two of you had planned to get lunch together, but with rehearsal going three hours over, you had to reroute your original plans to dinner.
“Get home safe ladies,” Suki states, her tone finally reflecting her own exhaustion as the adrenaline deflates her nervous system back to baseline. “I’ll send a back-up plan when I figure one out, but rest well!”
Goodbyes are exchanged in a hurry, but you lag behind. Patiently waiting for Suki to finish packing up so the both of you can walk out together.
Your eyes widen as you see tears swell along her waterline when she turns to you, her belongings securely in her bag. "Oh snookeums, what’s wrong?"
She inhales deeply, roughly wiping her eyes with the back of her hands. "I—I, w–we need to practice. We’re nowhere near where we need to be to say we’re exactly 60 days away," she breathes roughly. "A-and I just want us to be perfect for my special day, and—" she hiccups, "—I know we can be. But we can’t if we’re not practicing as a team because I won’t be able to spot—" another hiccup shakes her shoulders, "—our weak points."
She’s bawling now. Breathless and sobbing as she rambles about how important this is to her, and you let her cry. You wrap your arms around her and allow her to sob into your shoulder.
You knew she was overly stressed. You sensed it when she started second-guessing the routine she created, the color schemes she chose, the dresses she picked out—when she, a normally confident, unshakeable woman, began to question her own capabilities. You realized then that she was too far gone, with anxiety completely driving the car.
“It’s alright, we will figure this out," you state quietly, running your hand down her back despite the slickness of her sweat. Body fluids be damned when your girl is in a crisis. "Keyword: we. We’ll go home. Eat something good. Maybe have a sip of wine, maybe the whole bottle—you’ve earned it—and we’ll call some studios. No matter the price, I’ll cover it, and we’ll use it for however long we need until things are fixed here," you add, stepping back to peer into her lovely eyes.
Suki violently shakes her head, her hands flying up in protest. “No, absolutely not. Y/n, I can’t let you do that. A private rental for three days? That’s way too expensive to solo handle, I can’t ask for that from you.”
You just shake your own head right back at her, matching her stubborn energy beat for beat as you pull your gym bag over your shoulder. “Good thing you didn't ask, then. Consider it an early wedding present. Just add it to the tally of gifts I’ve already prepared for you.”
Suki lets out a watery laugh, rolling her eyes dramatically despite the lingering tear tracks on her cheeks. “You are entirely too much, you know that?”
You let out a loud cackle, the sound echoing in the now-empty studio. “Isn't that exactly why you love me? Now please, let’s leave Satan’s ass crack. I am quite literally fucking burning up in here.”
The moment the two of you push through the heavy glass exit doors, the atmospheric shift hits you like a blessing. The outside air is beautifully, blessedly cooler, immediately soothing your flushed skin.
Idling right by the curb is a familiar, sleek red BMW. The driver's side door swings open, and Zuko steps out into the crisp air. The moment his dark eyes lock onto you walking out of the building, his expression softens from his usual serious baseline into something warm.
You raise a tired arm, waving a quick goodbye over to Suki. “See you later!”
Suki waves back, her stride already looking a little lighter than it did inside. As she heads down the sidewalk toward her own vehicle—which happens to be parallel parked just two spaces ahead of where Zuko is waiting—she gives him a bright, exhausted smile. “Hey, Zuko!”
“Hey, Suki,” Zuko calls back politely, before turning his full attention back to you as you cross the pavement toward him.
“I’m beyond sweaty, my feet hurt, my legs are shaki—actually, everything is shaking. My deodorant is holding on by a thread and my clothes are soaked through,” you inform him, taking a deliberate step backward to keep a safe, polite distance.
He chuckles, completely ignoring your attempt at spacing and closing the distance between you instead. He easily slides the heavy gym bag off your shoulder and wraps a firm arm around your waist.
“Hello to you as well, beautiful,” he murmurs. He presses a light kiss to your lips, effortlessly pulling you closer until you’re flush against him.
You loop your arms around his neck, leaning into his hold and deepening the kiss for a lingering moment. You practically melt right into his chest as his grip tightens around you, acting as a pillar for your trembling muscles.
“I missed you,” Zuko murmurs, pulling back just enough to look down at you. His gaze wanders over your flushed face, his thumb gently wiping away a stray bead of sweat near your hairline. “This week has been brutal. I feel like I’ve barely seen you.”
It was true—with his schedule completely packed, you’d only managed to steal a single evening together over the last seven days. Not even a sleepover was done because he was traveling in the middle of the week and you had rehearsals all day last weekend.
“But the weekend is ours,” he promises, his voice dropping into that quiet, steady tone that always manages to soothe your frayed nerves. “No distractions. Just us.”
He presses one last, lingering kiss to your lips. Instead of pulling away entirely, you let your head drop forward, resting your forehead right against his chest. The solid rhythm of his heartbeat and the crisp, clean scent of his cologne are a heavy contrast to the chaotic, sweltering studio you just escaped.
“I missed you too,” you mumble against his shirt, a tired laugh bubbling up from your chest. “Honestly, every single eight-count today was just a countdown to this exact moment.”
Zuko smiles, the vibration radiating through his chest. He gives your waist a gentle, affectionate squeeze before finally guiding you toward the passenger side. He opens the door for you, patiently waiting as you sink into the cool leather seats, and carefully helps you buckle in—knowing your trembling hands would probably struggle with the click.
Once you’re safely tucked inside, he places your gym bag onto the backseat, closes the door, and jogs around to the driver's side, ready to finally get you to himself.
Zuko steers the BMW smoothly into the afternoon traffic, a sympathetic wince crossing his face as he listens to the breakdown of your day.
“I’m pretty sure I saw Ming actually cry at one point,” you tell him, leaning your head back against the cool leather headrest. “Like, from the sheer brutality of it all. At the end of the day, I like dancing, but I’m not a professional dancer. Being surrounded by all these world-class, elite dancers stresses me out so much.”
Zuko glances over at you at a red light, his expression full of understanding.
“Every single piece of feedback felt so personal,” you admit, looking out the window. “Even though I knew it wasn't, I just had to keep aggressively reminding myself of that the entire time. But then, to top it all off, the AC broke. After hour two, it was so hot I couldn't even think straight.”
“Hour two?” Zuko repeats, his jaw dropping slightly as he looks between you and the road. “You mean you danced for three hours in a building with no air conditioning? No wonder you look like you’re about to evaporate.”
He reaches over, gently adjusting the car’s vents so the crisp, icy air blows directly onto your face and arms.
“I knew Suki took her choreography seriously, but that sounds less like a wedding rehearsal and more like a survival trial,” he says, his tone a mix of protective irritation and genuine awe at what you just endured. “You’re something else, you know that? Most people would have walked out the second the thermometer hit ninety.”
You giggle, turning your gaze from the evening traffic to take in his handsome profile.
“As the maid of honor, shaking my ass in a hotbox was much more favorable than the ass-whooping I would be unable to outrun or win,” you mumble, the pure exhaustion making your filter completely disappear.
You reach across the center console, letting your overly warm hand settle right over his where it rests on the gearshift. The contrast of his cooler skin is an instant relief.
Zuko lets out a sudden, surprised laugh, the sound bright and genuine. He doesn't pull away; instead, he turns his palm upward under yours, threading his fingers through your shaking ones and squeezing tightly.
“Fair point,” he concedes, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he keeps his focus on the road ahead. “I’ve seen Suki take down grown men in sparring. I wouldn't want to test her bridal wrath either. But still—you went above and beyond today.”
He brings your joined hands up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your warm knuckles before resting them back down on his thigh, keeping you tethered to him. “We’ll have a lovely evening focused on relaxation, okay?” He says softly, his thumb traces soothing circles over your hand. “Carb galore, sugary delights, and if you behave, I see a foot massage in your future,” he teases.
You let out a soft, dramatic gasp, your eyes fluttering open as you look over at him. “A foot massage? Zuko, if you’re trying to seduce me after I’ve basically been melted down into a puddle of sweat, it is absolutely working.”
The promise of carbs, sugar, and hands on your aching feet is enough to make you completely forget about the grueling five hours you just survived. You squeeze his hand, leaning your head completely into the plush headrest and letting your eyelids grow heavy as the icy car air continues to rescue your overheated skin.
“And for the record,” you add, a sleepy smile tugging at the corners of your lips, “I am always on my best behavior. It’s Suki who turns me into a menace. But tonight? I am entirely yours to pamper.”
Zuko’s chuckle is low and warm, vibrating through the quiet space of the car as he smoothly navigates the streets toward his home. The stressful, suffocating atmosphere of the dance studio completely evaporates, leaving nothing but the quiet hum of the engine, the blast of the AC, and the comforting weight of his hand holding yours.
The smooth, quiet purr of the BMW’s engine finally cuts out as Zuko glides the car into his assigned spot inside the penthouse parking garage.
He unbuckles his seatbelt and turns to look at you, but the witty remark he has prepared dies on his lips. You are completely out. Your head is tilted against the headrest, your breathing deep and even, thoroughly exhausted from the five-hour marathon.
Zuko lets out a quiet, affectionate huff. Realizing there is absolutely no way you're walking up to the penthouse on your own two shaking legs, he pulls out his phone. Instead of dragging you into a crowded restaurant in your current state, he opens the app for the high-end eatery located right on the ground floor of his complex. He quickly places an order for a massive spread of comfort food—plenty of savory carbs and a few sugary delights—timing it to arrive right at his door by the time you’re done bathing.
Setting the phone aside, he quietly steps out of the car. He slips your gym bag over his shoulder, walks around to the passenger side, and gently opens the door.
You don’t even stir when the cool garage air hits you, nor when he carefully unbuckles your seatbelt. Bending down, Zuko hooks one strong arm beneath your knees and the other securely behind your back, lifting you effortlessly from the leather seat.
You instinctively murmur something completely incoherent, shifting your weight to tuck your face into the warm crook of his neck as he closes the car door with his foot. Holding you close against his chest, he carries you across the quiet garage floor and straight toward the private elevator foyer, the steady rise and fall of your chest the only sound echoing in the space.
The elevator dings softly as it opens directly into his penthouse. Zuko carries you across the polished floors and carefully lowers you onto the deep, plush cushions of the living room sofa.
The sudden loss of his body heat and the shift in positioning makes you stir. You let out a quiet, pathetic whine, your eyes still squeezed tightly shut as you blindly reach out for him. “Baby, stop moving…” you mumble into the fabric of the couch, completely dead to the world.
Zuko lets out a quiet chuckle, the sound echoing in the quiet room. Instead of stepping away, he squats down right beside the sofa, bringing himself eye-level with your sleepy, flushed face. He reaches out, gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your cheek with the back of his fingers.
“I’m right here,” he says softly, his voice a comforting, quiet anchor. “But you are covered in a layer of sweat, beautiful. Do you want to try and wash the day off? I can carry you to the bathroom—would you rather a quick shower, or do you want me to run a hot bath for you?”
You mumble drowsily, your arm reaching out to blindly tug at his shirt. “Want you…” You shift your weight against the cushions, burying your face a little deeper into the pillow. “Either will do.”
After a beat of heavy silence, you force your eyelids to flutter open. The ambient lighting of the penthouse catches the sharp angles of his face, and you just stare up at him for a second, completely intoxicated by exhaustion.
“Shower,” you clarify, your voice a raspy, quiet murmur as you take him in. “I’ll do a shower... ’cause my hair is dirty. Can’t have you smelling it while we’re sleeping.”
Zuko lets out a genuine, rumbling chuckle, his shoulders shaking slightly as he looks down at you. Even when you are running on absolute fumes and seeing double, your brain is somehow prioritizing his olfactory comfort.
“I assure you, I wouldn't care,” he says softly, his thumb gently smoothing over your cheekbone. “But a shower it is.”
He slides his arms back under your frame, effortlessly lifting you from the plush couch once more. You let out a breathy sigh of relief, looping your arms loosely around his neck as he carries you down the hallway toward the master bathroom, the grueling memory of the dance studio finally fading away into the background.
“You’re so good to me,” you mumble into his shoulder, your voice muffled by his shirt. You don’t even bother opening your eyes, completely content to just trust his movements as you feel him navigate the spacious master bathroom.
Zuko doesn't say a word, but the gentle way he adjusts your weight speaks volumes. He turns the water on, setting it to the overhead rainfall showerhead and carefully dialing the temperature to the perfect, steaming setting you always prefer. He reaches over to click on the towel warmer, ensuring a plush sheet of fabric will be waiting to rescue you when you're done, and double-checks the ledge to make sure all of your favorite hair care products are already lined up.
Knowing how tangled your hair gets after being contained in a bun, he grabs a detangling brush from the vanity drawer and places it right on the built-in shower shelf within easy reach.
Finally, he carefully maneuvers you over to the cool marble counter, lifting you up to sit on the edge.
He keeps his hands resting gently on either side of your hips to ensure your balance, leaning in until his forehead rests against yours. The heavy, warm steam is already beginning to fill the room, instantly working to loosen the tight, throbbing ache in your muscles.
“Only the best for my princess,” he murmurs against your skin, a soft smile evident in his voice. He gives your waist a gentle squeeze. “Do you need me to help you out of the clothes, or can you manage the peeling process while I go grab some pajamas for you to change into?
You offer a sleepy, appreciative smile, your hands reaching down to the hem of your thoroughly soaked sports bra. “I can manage the peeling process,” you murmur, though the thought of wrestling yourself out of the damp, tight spandex makes you want to sigh.
Before he can step away, your fingers lightly hook into the belt loops of his pants, pulling him back just an inch. You look up at him, your eyes soft and completely vulnerable with exhaustion. “But... do you mind sitting in here with me?” you ask quietly, your voice dropping to a small confession. “Just to keep me company. If I’m left alone with my thoughts, I know I’m just going to stare at the tile and stress over all the eight-counts I forgot today.”
Zuko’s expression instantly melts, any lingering teasing completely vanishing from his dark eyes. He reaches up, his large, warm hand gently cupping the side of your neck, his thumb tracing your jawline. “Of course I don't mind,” he says softly, pressing a gentle, reassuring kiss to your forehead. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He steps back just enough to let you handle the struggle of changing out of your workout gear, but he doesn't leave the room. Instead, he grabs the plush vanity stool and sits down.
As you finally step into the glorious, steaming rainfall of the shower, you look through the glass to see him leaning back, his focus entirely on you, ready to talk about absolutely anything it takes to drown out the phantom count of Suki’s voice in your head.
The second the steaming water hits your skin, a long, ragged sigh escapes your lips. It feels like the past five hours of tension, Suki’s sharp directives, and the stifling 97-degree heatwave are finally being washed down the drain. You stand under the rainfall head, letting the heat sink deep into your throbbing shoulders and aching lower back, completely dead to the world for a solid minute.
Through the fogged-up glass, Zuko is a comforting, dark silhouette sitting patiently on the vanity stool.
“How has your week been handsome?” You inquire, beginning the laborious journey of washing your hair.
He hums, watching your form through the translucent glass, utterly enamored with your existence. “Well…it wasn't the worst. However, I did tell my assistant today that Tuesday through Thursday travel is no longer acceptable. I really fucking hated not being able to see you in the middle of my week—”
His bluntness makes you burst into laughter. The sound makes his lips quirk into a wider smile. “I’m incredibly serious. I felt like a fiend in need of my next hit. By Thursday it was a bad day to be my employee or associate and they for sure noticed,” he concludes with a light laugh.
You let out another loud splash of laughter, the sound echoing richly against the tiled walls of the shower as you work the shampoo into a thick lather. “Oh, so you’re telling me you single-handedly terrorized your entire office just because you missed me?”
“I am completely unashamed to admit that, yes,” Zuko’s voice carries smoothly over the steady rush of the shower. Through the steam-fogged glass, you can see his silhouette leaning forward, his arms resting on his knees as he keeps his eyes fixed on your shape. “My assistant actually sighed with relief when I told her I was leaving early because I had plans with you. I think they were all ready to pool their money to buy me a plane ticket back to you just to save their own skin.”
You shake your head, rinsing the stray conditioner from near your eyes as you step deeper into the steaming water. The sheer warmth of his confession does a better job of melting away your exhaustion than the hot water ever could.
“I’ve seen you fired up sweetie, you’re beyond attractive—but boy are you not to be fucked with. Like a demon on a war path. Man on a mission—phenomenal sex comes from it, but I just know the cost was someone getting fired,” you comment, taking your time to detangle the four sections you’ve put your hair in.
Zuko lets out a low, rough chuckle that vibrates through the room, clearly amused and not at all denying the accusation.
"First of all, I'm glad the benefits of my focus are appreciated," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with a playful sort of heat that makes the steam in the room feel twice as thick. "Second, no one got fired. Threatened? Maybe. Strongly reprimanded for lack of efficiency? Definitely. But I kept it reined in just enough to ensure I'd have a company left to run when I got back."
You see him shift, leaning back slightly on the vanity stool as he watches you patiently work the brush through the third section of your hair.
"Besides," he adds, his tone softening into something much more tender, "it’s hard not to be a man on a mission when the prize at the end of the week is getting to take care of you like this. Take your time with those sections, princess. I'm not going anywhere."
You smile to yourself, the tension in your shoulders completely gone as you finish up the last section of your hair, haphazardly complete two standard scalp braids, and move to actually cleaning your body, the soothing warmth of the water enveloping you while Zuko's quiet presence keeps the rest of the world entirely locked outside.
You finish rinsing the last bit of soap off, letting the clean water cascade over your face and body for one more lingering moment. With a satisfying twist of the handle, the steady rush of the rainfall showerhead cuts off, leaving the bathroom in a warm, heavy silence filled only by the soft pitter-patter of stray droplets hitting the tile.
Before you can even reach for the handle, the glass door slides open, releasing a thick cloud of steam into the room.
Zuko is standing right there. He’s already holding the massive, plush bath sheet that had been warming on the rack. Without a word, he steps closer and wraps the heated fabric securely around your shoulders, instantly shielding your damp skin from the cooler air of the bathroom.
“Come here,” he murmurs, his hands lingering on your shoulders through the towel as he guides you to step out onto the thick, memory foam bath mat.
You lean into his touch immediately, letting your head rest against his shoulder as he uses the ends of the towel to gently blot the excess water from your arms and back. The sheer luxury of being taken care of like this makes a soft, content sigh escape your lips.
“I love your fine ass so much,” you breathe, nuzzling your head into his chest.
“Yeah, how much?” Zuko teases, handing you your microfiber towel for your hair. Then he goes back to drying you off.
You hum, faux thinking. Your hands slip to his shoulders, your fingers lightly digging into the soft fabric of his shirt for balance as he crouches lower, working the warm plush bath sheet down your thighs and calves.
As he finishes drying your legs, Zuko doesn't stand back up right away. He drops the towel to the floor, his large, warm hands smoothing up the sides of your hips, anchoring you in place. He leans forward, pressing a warm, lingering kiss right against your hip bone, making a soft shiver run down your spine.
Zuko starts pressing open-mouthed, lingering kisses across your abdomen, tracing the line of your hip bones, then moving back to the center to press a warm, firm kiss right over your belly button. You let out a long, dreamy sigh, your head tilting back onto the glass as your fingers trail up the lines of his shoulder and neck before tangling into the hair he has loose from his half-up hairstyle.
“Tell me," he demands quietly against your skin, his voice teasing.
“So much that one kiss from you has me wet all over again," you whisper, the words coming out completely breathless.
Zuko chuckles softly, the vibration of his mouth against your skin making your stomach muscles flutter. His hands slide down to the back of your thighs, pulling you just a fraction of an inch closer as his kisses track downward, leaving a damp, burning trail over your skin.
When his breath fans against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, you instinctively grip his hair tighter, your knees going a little weak. Zuko mutters a quiet, possessive sound of approval, his fingers squeezing ever so slightly to hold you steady as he leans in completely.
He doesn’t make you wait. He doesn’t tease you. He moves with purpose, the first touch of his tongue diving directly between your slick folds, making your hips arch into him. He moans at the taste of you, and you moan at the feeling of him.
“Oh…God,” you whimper, your voice fractured and breathless as your fingers anchor deep into his hair. “Zuko, please... you’re so good to me.”
Zuko strokes upward, slow and deliberating, savoring your taste after a long week apart. He works you masterfully, alternating between firm movements and teasing kisses, drinking in the sweet, desperate praise you keep pouring over him. But as his lips wrap around your clit, your mind loses all reason. Your toes curl into the mat and your back bows.
“You’re sooo f-fucking perfect,” you gasp out, your head hitting the glass behind you.
And when his teeth lightly graze over the sensitive bundle of nerves, you convulse underneath his touch. Your orgasm is sensory-shattering; your eyes flutter closed, and your mouth falls open in a drawn-out, desperate moan of his name.
Zuko doesn’t stop, though. He keeps going, lapping up your release as if it's the only thing to drink for miles. Even as you whimper, your hands weakly tugging at his hair to beg for mercy, he simply shakes his head against your thighs to signify he’s not done.
“You're doing so well for me, beautiful,” he whispers against your slick skin, his voice thick with praise that melts straight into your core.
As he pushes you past overstimulation, your ragged breathing picks up. Your weak whimpers turn right back into compliant, needy moans as the coil in your stomach winds up even tighter, dragging you effortlessly toward a second, even deeper wave.
The bathroom is a symphony of moans and the sound of Zuko eating you like a five-course meal. He makes a beautifully curated mess in between your legs with your arousal and his saliva mixing together in a way that has him gripping you impossibly tight.
“Zu–zuko, baby, I–” your words are interrupted by another high pitched moan as your legs start to shake again in anticipation. “Fuck.”
The friction of his tongue against your hyper-sensitized skin sends fierce, electric jolts straight to your core. Your hips shudder, instinctively trying to pull back from the sheer intensity of it, but Zuko’s grip on your thighs is unyielding. He holds you right where he wants you, keeping your trembling frame pinned to the shower wall as he picks up the pace.
"Zuko—wait, please," you sob out, the praise turning into a breathless plea as your hands scramble to find purchase on his shoulders. "I can't... it's too much, baby, I'm too sensitive—"
"You can," he mutters against you, the sensation sends goosebumps down your legs. "Keep being a good girl for me, beautiful. You're so close."
Hearing his encouragement completely breaks whatever resolve you have left. You abandon all resistance, your fingers tangling desperately back into his hair to pull him closer, guiding him as his tongue strokes firmly over your clit once more. The coil in your stomach snaps with terrifying speed.
Your second climax hits harder than the first, a violent, full-body rush that leaves you gasping for oxygen and grappling for stability. Your thighs tremor against his cheeks as a long, high-pitched whine tears from your throat, your vision blurring as you ride out the wave of pure pleasure.
Zuko slows his movements, executing a few final, soothing laps to catch the last of your release before he finally, slowly, lifts his head.
His lips are slick and glistening, his dark hair beautifully disheveled from your frantic fingers, and his eyes are completely glowing with satisfaction. He rests his forehead against your inner thigh for a brief moment, breathing deeply, just enjoying the heavy, rhythmic trembling of your legs.
A small, victorious smile tugging at his lips as he looks up at your dazed, thoroughly ruined form. "I told you you could do it."
Slowly, Zuko pushes himself up from his knees, his muscles shifting fluidly as he rises to his full height. Your legs are so weak they feel entirely like jelly, and the second his hold leaves your thighs, you start to slide.
He anticipates it instantly. Before your feet can slip from underneath you, Zuko catches you, looping one strong arm under your knees and the other around your waist to scoop you up against his chest once more.
You let out a soft, defeated groan, your head lolls onto his shoulder as you bury your face into the crook of his neck. Your skin is flushed, your heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs, and the lingering tremors from the double climax are still rippling through your clit.
“I never doubted it for a minute,” you tease, voice raspy. You watch him through low lidded eyes as he passes a warm towel in between your legs to wipe away the residuals of your climaxes. “I promise, the moment feeling returns to my legs and I have a carb in my system, I’m sucking your dick and drinking it like an oreo milkshake from Sonic.”
Your statement makes him choke on air. His eyes shoot up from your satisfied cunt to your face—mouth open. “Pa-pardon?”
You cackle at his shock. Thoroughly pleased with yourself for catching him by surprise. Over the past several months, he’s gotten accustomed to your lack of filter, raw honesty, and proud vocalizations, but there are still times where you completely blindside him—and this is one of those lovely times.
“I will. I mean it. I want to lick you like a lollipop, choke on it, and still try my best to swallow you whole until it eventually leads to you painting my throat with your kids.” He’s speechless and you love it. “ Sounds like a great time, right?”
He closes his eyes for a brief moment, taking a deep breath through his nose to calm down. “L–Let’s get a real meal in you before you and I burn calories you don’t have after practically evaporating in a dance studio,” his voice carries no real weight as he looks at you more than ready to cash-in on your promise.
“I think cum is a real meal when it’s yours. Matter-of-fact, I would argue that with your eating habits there’s probably protein, vitamin D, and omega-3’s in your semen—” you pause as he breaks out into a carefree laugh. He’s completely undone by your audacity and imagination.
His eyes crinkle, his shoulders shake, and the way his face lights up from laughter makes your smile feel permanent. A small giggle slips past your lips at how easy the big-bad-business man turns soft around you.
Zuko swallows hard, his throat bobbing as he forces the last of his laughter down. He pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a long, slow breath in a desperate bid to summon the disciplined, unshakeable CEO who routinely commands boardrooms.
It is a valiant effort. It lasts all of three seconds.
The moment his dark eyes drop back down to your smug, thoroughly pleased face, a betraying dimple pops into his cheek. "Omega-3s," he repeats, his voice flat with disbelief, though it cracks slightly at the end. "You are rationalizing a blowjob using dietary guidelines, princess?"
"I’m just saying, it’s a wellness trend waiting to happen," you reply smoothly, wrapping your arms tighter around his neck. “I’d also like to add that I think what I plan on doing to you transcends this archaic blowjob verbage. The way you just gobbled me up will be returned ten-fold.”
He starts to carry you out of the bathroom, his stride purposeful, but the flush creeping up his neck tells on him completely. He’s trying so hard to play the mature caretaker, but your words have clearly left a vivid, burning image in his head.
"I'm going to set you on the bed," he states, his tone dripping with a stern authority that is entirely ruined by the way his thumb is absentmindedly tracing a slow circle on your bare thigh. "You are going to put on the sweatpants and shirt I laid out. And then I am going to fetch the takeout before you can give me a lecture on the caloric density of my own fluids."
You let out a loud, delighted cackle against his collarbone. "Oh, so you're running away from greatness?"
Zuko stops right at the edge of the mattress, lowering you onto the plush covers with immense care, but he doesn't untangle himself immediately. Instead, he hovers over you, his loose dark hair framing his face as his gaze darkens into something heavy, warm, and promising.
"I am securing your stamina," he murmurs, his lips brushing yours just a fraction of an inch as he speaks. "Because if you think I'm letting you off the hook for that Sonic milkshake comment after dinner, you've highly underestimated my appetite."
You practically explode with giggles as you watch him walk away, shaking his head at the way you leave him discombobulated and inside-out. Your hands grab the T-shirt he placed on the bed for you. You slip the thick, pure cotton fabric over your head and sigh at the cozy sensation it envelopes you in. You ignore the sweatpants. Instead you place them on the nightstand on your side and grab the tablet he calls a remote.
You navigate the viewing platforms like a seasoned veteran finding The Wayans Bros. with ease. Rather intentionally or not, it’s up for debate in your friend group if you’ve conditioned Zuko to only watch Black Classic re-runs only, but it’s the only television shows he watches now. From Girlfriends to Living Single, The Game, The Have and The Have-Nots, he’s watching it with you and when anything else is on television that doesn’t have a primarily Black cast, he’s checked all the way out. Even his habit of watching documentaries has been narrowed to only watching the ones with Morgan Freeman as the narrator.
He walks back into the bedroom balancing a massive, multi-tiered bag of high-end takeout and a serving tray, his expression carefully reset to his neutral, composed caretaker baseline.
That baseline lasts precisely until he crosses the threshold.
His eyes do a quick sweep of the bed. They linger on the discarded sweatpants sitting safely on the nightstand, trace the bare expanse of your legs, and finally land on his oversized cotton T-shirt hanging loosely off your shoulders. He lets out a quiet, defeated huff through his nose, but before he can even open his mouth to call you out on your blatant rule-breaking, the loud, chaotic theme song of The Wayans Bros. blasts through his state-of-the-art surround sound speakers.
He carefully sets the massive spread of food down on the long bench at the foot of the bed, organizing the boxes with automated efficiency on the tray before finally looking back up at you.
"I explicitly remember giving a directive regarding the sweatpants," he murmurs, his voice low as he walks around to your side of the bed, cautiously setting the tray over your lap. But before he can even attempt to look stern, his dark eyes track the screen.
Marlon is currently mid-sentence, executing a piece of physical comedy so wildly dramatic that Zuko’s jaw subtly tightens as he tries to hold back a reaction. He stands there at the edge of the mattress, completely paralyzed by the plot, his hands hovering over his hips as he gets instantly sucked into the screen.
"Is this the episode where Marlon tries to become a high-fashion model?" Zuko asks, his serious, deep baritone completely contrasting the ridiculousness of the question. He doesn't even realize he’s leaning forward, his focus entirely hijacked by the television.
"Yep," you pop the 'p', shifting over just an inch to make room for him on the plush covers. "The one where he changes his name to 'Ikky' and wears the trash bag suit."
"Right. The trash bag," Zuko repeats under his breath. He doesn't even fight it anymore. The disciplined, high-powered businessman completely checks out, utterly defeated by the conditioning your friend group loves to laugh about. He kicks off his slippers and slides onto the bed right beside you, immediately reaching over to pull your bare, aching thighs over his lap.
His large, warm hands effortlessly find the tight, throbbing muscles of your calves, his fingers immediately digging into the knots with the expert pressure of a promised massage. He doesn't take his eyes off the screen for a single second as the laugh track blares.
You oscillate between feeding the both of you and watching him watch TV. There’s just something so insanely attractive about a man falling in love with your culture that it has you counting down the seconds this episode is over. It doesn’t help either that the way he massages your legs just right has you letting out quiet moans and whimpers of appreciation.
The combination of Marlon’s runway chaos, savory comfort food, and Zuko’s deeply attentive hands creates a heavy, intoxicating domestic bliss. The room is filled with the rhythmic sounds of the television laugh track, the clink of takeout containers, and the quiet, involuntary sounds of your body completely surrendering to his touch.
Every time his thumbs dig into a particularly tight spot on your calves or sweep up the back of your knee, a soft, breathless whimper escapes you. You press a forkful of high-end short rib or a piece of something wonderfully carby to his lips, and he accepts it automatically, his jaw working as his eyes remain glued to the screen. He doesn't even blink when Shawn and Marlon start bickering, completely locked into the ecosystem of the show.
Seeing this intensely serious man—who normally commands multi-million dollar rooms—so entirely at peace, so thoroughly integrated into your world and your comfort, makes your chest ache with a fierce, quiet warmth. It’s an incredibly potent aphrodisiac.
Your inner thigh muscle twitches underneath his touch as his hand glides further underneath your night shirt. You exhale sharply as he applies just the right amount of pressure to the sore tendons. You lay your head further back on the pillows, allowing your eyes to close and soak in the moment.
Zuko’s lips quirk up as he sees you surrender to relaxation out of his peripheral, but he’s not letting you get away with your tongue in cheek remarks without repercussions. He works his hand up slowly, before allowing his fingers to trace down the folds of your embarrassingly wet cunt.
Your eyes flutter open immediately. “Now Prince, what kind of massage parlour are you running?”
He doesn’t turn his gaze away from Marlon’s shenanigans. “The one with a happy ending, can’t have any unsatisfied customers—and I just know if I don’t bury my fingers in you that’s exactly what you’ll be,” he punctuates his sentence by gliding two of his fingers between your soaking walls.
The moan you let out carries over the laughtrack, but Zuko doesn’t bother turning his attention to you just yet. Instead, he works you open with passive precision.
Your fingers grasp the serving tray like a lifeline. Every plunge is accompanied by his thumb working over your sensitive clit. Still on edge from the way he worked you over in the shower.
It’s electric. It’s addicting.
He fingers you like he fucks you—patiently, deeply, perfectly.
“Zu–zuko,” it's a broken gasp. A ruined sentence and lost thought.
He curves his fingers, ensuring that they drag along that spongy spot that makes your thoughts turn to glitter. “Yes, princess?”
Squelch
The moment the sound reaches your ears over the sound of the TV, your eyes roll back. It’s intoxicating to see what he does to you and vice-versa, but there’s something so obscene and filthy about hearing it. “ I-I’m–Ohhhhh fuck”
The bamboo of the tray leaves indents in your palms from how tightly you hold on to it for stability. Your legs shake. The muscles he just loosened tighten up once again as the knot in your stomach finally combusts underneath his touch.
A soundless moan slips past your parted lips, mixing in with the outro theme song. It’s only then that Zuko turns his gaze to face you and the mess he’s made of you—the mess he’s only getting started with.
“Y–you’re unbelievable" you breathe, taking big gulps of air as the waves of your orgasm start to subside. The mischievous look on his face makes your eye twitch. It’s not fair that he’s able to discombobulate you with the flick of his wrist. Your pout deepens. “I was building my stamina so I can perform beautifully for dessert and here you are dismantling dinner etiquette. Have you no shame?”
He chuckles, hooking his fingers to drag them along your upper walls as he pulls them out. “You had no shame looking me in the eye to tell me the nutritional value of my—”
“Ah–ah, my dessert? Why yes I did not. Why would I be ashamed to talk about the secret sauce of my life? The Krabby Patty formula of my world, the peanut butter that makes my body feel like Jelly. BUT, I still stand by the fact that you played dirty.”
Zuko’s fingers are still glistening as he sets the tray completely off the bed, his pretty gold eyes fixed on your flushed face. The dramatic, rapid-fire comparison to late-night cartoon lore and pantry staples has the corner of his mouth twitching all over again. He lets out a breathy, thoroughly defeated laugh, shaking his head as he pulls a couple of wet wipes from the takeout bag to clean his hands.
“The Krabby Patty formula,” he repeats, his voice dropping into that quiet gravelly tone that means he’s completely amused but entirely dangerous. “You are out of your mind. Truly. I’m trying to ensure you don't faint on me, and you’re treating my anatomy like a Saturday morning cartoon lineup.”
He tosses the crumpled wipe onto the nightstand and crawls up the mattress, his movements slow, deliberate, and predatory. The TV screen shifts to the opening credits of the next episode, casting a blue hue over the sharp angles of his jaw line.
“And for the record,” he murmurs, his large frame hovering directly over yours, pinning you into the plush pillows without putting a single ounce of heavy pressure on your sore muscles. He hooks a finger under the collar of his oversized shirt, tugging it down just enough to expose the heavy pulse beating at the base of your throat. “I always play dirty when it comes to you. Especially when you lie to me.”
You blink up at him through heavy, post-orgasmic lids, your bottom lip still tucked into a stubborn pout. “I have never lied to you a day in my life, Prince.”
“You told me you were building your stamina,” Zuko whispers, his lips brushing the sensitive skin right beneath your ear, making a fresh wave of goosebumps ripple down your bare legs. His hands slide up your waist, his thumbs tracing the underside of your breast. “But you melt the second I touch you. You’re completely undone, princess. If this was a survival trial, Suki would have kicked you out of the studio hours ago.”
The playful jab hits your competitive streak instantly. You shift beneath him, your hands flying up to grip the fabric of his shirt, pulling him down until his mouth is a mere breath away from yours.
“Suki doesn’t have a patent on my endurance,” you fire back, your voice a raspy, confident challenge despite the way your thighs are still faintly trembling against the sheets. “And I am a woman of my word. The main course is settled. I believe I promised you an Oreo milkshake, and I intend to collect on my recipe.”
Zuko’s gaze darkens, the amusement instantly melting into a heavy, unadulterated hunger that has your stomach doing backflips. He doesn't say a word; he just reaches down, his fingers curling into the hem of the shirt and pulling it up over your head in one swift motion, tossing it blindly across the room.
“Show me,” he challenges softly, his voice thick and possessive as he moves down the bed, his hands smoothing over your skin with a reverence that makes you feel entirely worshiped. “Let’s see how well your guidelines hold up.”
You don’t even hesitate. The sudden rush of cooler bedroom air against your bare skin is immediately replaced by the intense, radiated heat of Zuko’s body as you shift, using what’s left of your strength to roll him onto his back. He lets you do it, a low rumble of approval vibrating in his chest as he settles deep into the pillows, his dark hair sprawling across the fabric like a halo of controlled chaos.
You sit astride his thighs, the friction of your bare skin against his soft trousers instantly dialing the tension in the room back up to a fever pitch. You slide down his frame, your knees framing his thighs as your hands work the button and zipper of his trousers with surprisingly steady fingers. The moment he is freed from the fabric, your breath catches in your throat.
He’s thick, fully hard, and beautifully heavy, a light sheen of pre-cum already glistening at the tip. The sight of him—combined with the quiet, domestic background noise of the television transitioning into the next scene—makes your mouth go completely dry.
You don’t hesitate. Exhaustion be damned, the sheer adrenaline of having him like this after a week apart completely takes over. You look up at him, a wicked, sleepy smirk breaking through your dazed expression. “Nutrition time, Prince.”
You lean forward, your lips parting as you take the crown of his length into your mouth. The contrast is immediate—the slick, burning heat of your throat enveloping him completely. You slide your tongue along the underside of his shaft, tracing the sensitive line all the way to the base before pulling back to swirl your tongue directly over the tip, catching the sweet, heavy taste of him.
You moan, eyes fluttering close as you savor the way his pre coats your tongue. You may be dickmatized, you may just be right, but you’re certain he tastes like a protein shake.
Zuko watches you through half-lidded eyes; seemingly hypnotized himself as he observes the way you lose yourself through pleasing him. “Fuck, beautiful,” he rasps, his head tilting back as your lips slide further down his length.
You don’t play fair. You use everything you’ve got—the wet, suctioning heat of your mouth, the friction of your tongue, and the expert stroke of your hand moving in perfect synchronization. You take him deeper, letting his thickness stretch your lips, your throat contracting around him just enough to mimic the tight, crushing rhythm he loves. You look up at him through your lashes, entirely smug as you watch the disciplined, unshakeable CEO completely dissolve beneath your touch.
You take him deeper, your throat contracting around his thick width, deliberately testing your own limits just to hear the wrecked, possessive sounds he makes. Zuko’s hand leaves the sheet, his large, warm palm coming down to rest against the back of your head. He doesn’t push, he never forces you, but the heavy, trembling weight of his hand is a clear indication of how close he is to the edge.
“Fuck, baby… you’re doing so perfectly,” he rasps, his hips stuttering a tentative, needy rhythm against your mouth. “Such a good job, princess.”
Hearing his praise, mixed with the faint, ridiculous backdrop of the Wayans Bros. transition music still playing on the television, pushes you into overdrive. You pick up the pace, bobbing your head in a rhythm that mimics the aggressive choreography you’d struggled with all day, but here? Here, you aren't missing a single beat. Your hand works his base while your mouth creates a fierce, merciless vacuum, swallowing him as deep as your throat will allow.
Zuko’s breath turns into short, fractured pants. His abdominal muscles lock up, turning into hard ridges beneath your hands as his thumb digs firmly into the nape of your neck.
He’s close.
And that makes your own core throb with anticipation and pleasure.
You take a deep breath of air before forcing him further down. Blinking past the tears building on your waterline and the discomfort having him so deep causes. You put on a performance that makes him breathless and speechless. Moving with a level of expertness that would have his sane mind asking you where you could have learned this from.
Zuko lets out a loud, ruined groan, his fingers tangling into your hair with sudden, possessive force—not to pull you away, but to hold you flush against him as he finally breaks.
The first thick wave of his release hits the back of your throat, hot and heavy. True to your chaotic promise, you don't flinch. You swallow him down, your throat pulsing around him as he pumps wave after wave into your mouth, his body shuddering violently between your legs. He moans your name into the room, a sound so raw and utterly defeated it makes your own stomach tighten with the phantom ache of pleasure.
You stay right there, sucking gently to catch every last drop of his release until his pulse finally begins to slow from a frantic sprint back to a heavy, throbbing baseline.
Slowly, you slide your mouth off his length, letting out a soft, wet pop. You wipe the corner of your mouth with your thumb, looking up at him with a thoroughly triumphant, heavy-lidded gaze.
“Compliments to the chef,” you rasp, climbing up his body to sit on his lap. Your smile widens as you take in his flushed cheeks, unfocused gaze, and slightly parted lips. “Now that’s how I like my man to look, hypnotized by me.”
He exhales roughly, letting out a sound that's half amused, but purely smitten. “I am entirely hypnotized by you. Bewitched. Enamored. Utterly at your mercy, princess,” Zuko’s voice is husky, two octaves lower than his baseline, and it makes your walls clench in want. “Phenomenal performance.”
The word performance acts like a trigger.
You made a promise. To help Suki find a dance studio.
Your eyes flicker to the bedside clock. 5:07 p.m.
Shit.
Zuko senses the shift in your energy immediately, watching the way your face morphs into one of horror and absolute fear. Before he can open his mouth to ask what’s wrong, you start panicking aloud—a habit you’ve picked up over the past few months ever since the chaotic way you told him you love him.
“Baby, I fucked up. I—I was supposed to come home, shower, open a bottle of wine, eat a big-ass meal, and call dance studios for the weekend. I did not do that. I did you instead. Which, I personally prefer, but oh my God, I’m a dead bitch. The offices are going to be closed, baby. It’s fucking five—FIVE. I had one fucking job and—”
“Breathe,” he instructs simply.
Your body listens on autopilot. Your mouth snaps shut and you take a big, deep breath.
Zuko winds his arms around your waist, pulling you closer so that you invade his space until the deep breath you release fans across his neck. “We have a dance studio downstairs—two of them. I’m sure at least one is open for reservation. If not, that’s okay. One of the company properties has a fitness area that’s open-floor, has mirrors on the wall, and A/C. Crisis averted, okay? Keep taking deep breaths for me and I’ll contact concierge.”
You drop your head on his shoulder. His words blanket over your rising panic and soothe your heart rate back to baseline. You lift your arms to wrap them around his neck, pressing yourself flush against him as he picks up the service phone from his side of the nightstand.
“Evening, David. I’m calling to ask if the fourth-floor dance studio is open for the weekend?” Zuko’s fingers dance along your lower back, tracing patterns as he waits for David to check the schedule. He watches with utter fascination as goosebumps form immediately underneath his touch—captivated by the way your breathing has become level, and the way your hips let out a small, involuntary jerk whenever his thumb applies pressure to a specific patch of sensitive skin.
“Amazing. I’d like to reserve it for the entire weekend.”
Zuko locks in the confirmation with a few brief, polite words before setting the receiver back onto its cradle. The second the line goes dead, you let out a soft, heavy sigh of relief against his neck, your lips brushing his skin as you mumble a quiet, heartfelt thank-you directly into his ear.
To match the lazy, possessive way his fingers are still working over your lower back, you slip your hands beneath the collar of his shirt, mimicking his slow movements across the broad expanse of his shoulder blades. Your nails lightly dig into his skin, dragging down just enough to make his muscles tighten in a long, pleased stretch beneath you.
He lets out a low, rough rumble, his arms tightening around your waist to pull you completely into his chest. “You are a thousand times welcome, princess,” he murmurs, his voice thick with a sweet, genuine warmth. “I’m just glad I was able to help.”
You let your eyes flutter closed, entirely content to be held by him. “Honestly, even if the building didn't have a studio, I think you would have magically found a way anyway,” you muse softly, a sleepy smile pressing into his collarbone. “You have a ridiculous provider spirit, Prince. It's an incredibly attractive trait.”
“Now, take this off for me” you murmur into his skin, the bluntness of the request sliding out with that same sleepy, zero-filter honesty he’s grown to love. You tug lightly at the cotton fabric trapped between your fingers. “I want to feel you. All the way.”
Zuko doesn't hesitate. The absolute compliance in his movements is a quiet thrill, especially from a man who spends his days giving directives to everyone else. He releases your waist, sits up just enough to pull the dark fabric over his head in one smooth, fluid motion, and tosses it blindly toward the foot of the bed.
The moment he settles back down, the direct contrast of his bare chest against your skin is an absolute blessing. He is solid, radiating a deep, natural heat that instantly makes you feel anchored.
You slide right back into his space, letting out a soft, content hum as you lay your cheek directly over his heartbeat. Your hands map the familiar ridges of his shoulders, your nails lightly trailing down the center of his spine, leaving faint, vanishing tracks in their wake.
“Better?” he whispers, his large hand coming up gently to fiddle with the end of your braids.
“Incredibly,” you mumble, your eyes fluttering shut as the rhythmic, steady thud beneath your cheek completely hypnotizes you. The heavy scent of his clean skin and the faint, lingering trace of the savory short ribs on the air create a heavy capsule of domestic bliss. “Let me take a ten minute nap. I want to have sex, because I feel like I need to drown in your presence and I think having you fuck me seven ways till Sunday will give me that. Make up for the seven days I didn’t get to see you how I like.”
Zuko’s entire chest stalls beneath your cheek, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat dropping a single, hard thud against your ribs before picking back up at a decidedly faster pace. The utter filth sliding out of your mouth in such a soft, sleepy mumble catches him completely off guard, the sheer audacity of your timeline making him choke on a breath.
He lets out a low, rough sound—halfway between a strangled laugh and a dark, entirely undone groan. His fingers stop their gentle fiddling at the ends of your braids, his large palm coming down flat and heavy against the back of your head, pinning you gently but firmly to his collarbone.
"Seven ways till Sunday," he repeats, his voice incredibly husky, the vibration rattling through his chest. He shakes his head against the pillows, a betraying dimple popping straight into his flushed cheek as he stares up at the ceiling. "You are completely lawless when you're exhausted. I am trying to be a gentleman, to let you rest your aching muscles, and you're lying on my chest treating my body like a marathon route."
"I am mathematically calculating the deficit of our intimacy over the last week," you mumble into his skin, your eyes locked entirely shut as the warmth of his bare torso completely pulls you under. "It's a strict evaluation, Prince. Don't fight the numbers."
Zuko lets out a genuine, rumbling chuckle, his shoulders shaking beneath your hands as his grip on your waist turns intensely possessive. He slides his large hand down to the back of your bare thigh, his fingers squeezing the tight muscle with a heavy, grounding weight that promises everything you just asked for.
"Ten minutes," he murmurs against your hair, his lips pressing a warm, lingering kiss into the crown of your head as he pulls the plush duvet up over both of your shoulders to shield your bare skin from the AC. "I'm setting a timer on my phone, princess. Sleep. Because the exact second those ten minutes are up, I am cashing in on every single one of those seven ways."
You let out a yawn, nuzzling your face into him. “Amazing, baby. Make it fifteen, but a hard fifteen. Not a second over or under. If I don’t get up, you have full permission to just roll me over and kick start the magic I plan on creating in this bed with you.”
Zuko lets out another low, thoroughly defeated laugh against your temple, his chest lifting beneath you in a deep, steady breath. The way you effortlessly negotiate an extra five minutes of sleep while simultaneously handing him absolute, unmitigated clearance to take what he wants is so uniquely you it makes his head spin.
"A hard fifteen," he murmurs, carefully maneuvering to grab the throw blanket from the edge of the bed. "Understood. The timer is locked in. I suggest you close your mouth and start counting sheep, princess, because you’re running out of seconds."
He wraps the blanket around you, watching you wiggle impossibly closer to him.
You don't even reply, a final, muffled hum against his collarbone serving as your compliance. The sheer weight of the five-hour rehearsal, the double climax in the shower, his massage and then his massage, the comfort food, and the heavy, radiated heat of his bare skin finally combine into the perfect sedative. Within two minutes, your breathing smooths out into a deep, rhythmic pattern, your body going completely compliant and heavy as you sink entirely into him.
Zuko doesn't move an inch. He lies perfectly still in the dim, blue-tinted light of the penthouse, his eyes completely fixed on the peaceful, soft expression of your face while you sleep. The loud, chaotic sounds of The Wayans Bros. transition music have long since faded into a low commercial break, but he isn't paying attention to the screen anymore. He reaches down with his free hand, quietly adjusting the plush duvet so it tucks perfectly around your shoulders, keeping you warm against the crisp blast of the air conditioner.
His fingers slide back up to the ends of your braids, lazily twirling a single strand between his fingertips as he watches the steady rise and fall of your chest against his. The sheer peace of having you tucked into his space after a brutal, suffocating week of travel is a luxury he didn't realize he was starving for until this exact moment.
He glances down at his phone resting on the nightstand. The glowing digital face reads 5:12 p.m.
The silent countdown of your hard fifteen minutes is ticking away, the numbers dropping steadily toward zero. Zuko’s gaze darkens just a fraction, a slow, predatory smirk pulling at the corner of his lips as his palm smooths down the curve of your hip, feeling the soft, trembling warmth of your skin. He is going to let you have every single second of the rest you’d earned.
But the exact moment that timer goes off, he is going to dismantle you.
The sharp, high-pitched chirp of the bedside service phone slices through the heavy silence of the penthouse, instantly shattering the deep, dead sleep you and Zuko are buried under.
Zuko flinches, a low, gravelly groan tearing from his throat as the noise repeats. He feels like he’s running on absolute fumes, his entire body heavy and thoroughly drained from the brutal marathon the two of you actually ended up executing until the early hours of the morning. Beside him, you don’t even stir; you are completely passed out, tangled face-down in the plush duvet, a bare leg draped heavily over his thighs, completely dead to the world.
With a blind, frustrated reach, Zuko rolls over and snatches the receiver off the cradle, slamming it against his ear before his golden eyes can even fully blink open.
"Yeah," he rasps, his deep baritone completely shot, rough and heavy with sleep.
"Good morning, Mr. Zuko," the smooth, apologetic voice of the downstairs concierge carries through the line. "I am so sorry to wake you, sir, but the Kyoshi Warriors dance team is currently in the lobby. A Ms.Suki states that they have a reservation for the fourth-floor studio, but they were hoping to come up to your unit first to drop off some rehearsal gear and grab your partner?"
Zuko stares blankly at the ceiling, his sleep-deprived brain completely stalling out. Dancers. In the lobby. Suki. He blinks once. Twice. He shifts his head to look at the bedside clock. 7:35 a.m.
He is utterly floored. He is half-asleep, thoroughly confused, and entirely convinced he is hallucinating. "They're... what?" he mumbles, rubbing a hand roughly over his face, trying to force his corporate brain to boot up. "It's seven in the morning on a Saturday."
"Yes, sir. There are about twelve of them. They are highly energetic, and Ms. Suki was very insistent that they were told to arrive early to maximize their eight-counts."
Zuko lets out a long, thoroughly defeated breath, pinching the bridge of his nose as the reality of the situation hits him. He glances down at your deeply sleeping, completely unbothered form beside him. "Right. Okay. Just... let them up to the penthouse elevator foyer, David. Give me five minutes."
He drops the phone back onto the cradle and turns his head, staring at you in absolute disbelief.
The missing puzzle piece is currently glowing on the nightstand. If Zuko were to pick up your phone right now, he would see a text thread from 11:30 p.m. the night before. Right in the middle of your fifteen-minute grace period—just as the adrenaline and wine had peaked—you had enthusiastically texted Suki: “Studio secured, baby! Fourth floor of Zuko’s building. We have the keys for the whole weekend, come whenever!”
Driven by bridal panic and military precision, Suki had instantly replied to the group chat: “Perfect. We meet at the lobby at 7:30 a.m. sharp. No lagging.”
But you hadn't looked back at your screen. You had been far too busy getting dismantled seven ways till Sunday to check the timestamp, leaving a stampede of passionate, high-energy dancers currently rising up the private elevator straight toward your peaceful, post-coital sanctuary.
He doesn’t wake you up immediately. Instead, Zuko slips on a pair of sweatpants and a crewneck. He navigates to the master bathroom, starting his skincare and dental hygiene. His hair an unruly mess rolling down his shoulder, with a hair tie loosely hanging on to the bottom strands for dear life.
When he steps back into the room, you’ve done nothing but scoot into the spot he vacated. Seemingly settling for the warm divot he left rather than his physical presence. Zuko lets out a small laugh of amusement, making his way to the kitchen. He presses the start button on the Espresso machine, starting the grueling process of making enough coffee to fuel a small army. The moment he gets into a groove, there’s a knock at the front door.
Zuko adjusts his grip on the massive corporate-sized carafe he just dragged out of the pantry, his jaw tight as the heavy mahogany doors of the penthouse echo with a loud, incredibly synchronized knock. It’s not a regular knock. It’s an evaluation. It’s a rhythmic, authoritative statement that leaves no room for hesitation.
Suki.
He lets out a long, slow breath through his nose, attempting to summon a fraction of his disciplined boardroom armor as he walks across the polished hardwood floors. His unruly, dark hair is spilling over the shoulders of his crewneck, the single hair tie at the very bottom of the strands looking like a survivor of a war zone after the marathon you put him through.
The moment his palm twists the lock and pulls the heavy door open, the quiet, luxurious peace of his penthouse is completely obliterated.
Standing at the front of the pack is Suki, looking terrifyingly bright-eyed, wearing a crisp Kyoshi Warriors athletic jacket and holding a massive clipboard like a shield. Because she's your best friend—and because her fiancé, Sokka, happens to be Zuko's absolute best friend—she treats Zuko's penthouse less like a billionaire's estate and more like an extension of her own living room. She doesn't even wait for an invitation, stepping right past him with practiced precision while checking something off her list.
"Good morning, Zuko!" Suki chirps, her voice echoing richly into the foyer with a level of volume that makes his sleep-deprived ears ring. "We're a few minutes behind our optimal stretching timeline, but the traffic near the complex was actually favorable. Where is the maid of honor? I brought the modified choreo sheets for the breakdown section."
Zuko stands there, his large frame frozen with one hand still resting on the doorknob as the rest of the team files past him in an automated, highly disciplined line. Ming offers a sleepy, sympathetic wave as she drags a cooler of ice water through the threshold, while the other girls immediately begin piling their gym bags, spare heels, and yoga mats into a neat, military-style grid right against his pristine accent wall.
"She's..." Zuko clears his throat, his voice cracking slightly into a gravelly, sleep-rough baritone that betrays exactly what he was doing until three o'clock in the morning. He pinches the bridge of his nose, staring at the sheer volume of athletic wear currently dominating his living room. "She's still asleep, Suki. It's seven-thirty-five on a Saturday."
"Asleep?" Suki stops dead in her tracks, turning on her heel to look at him with a mix of bridal betrayal and genuine amusement. She knows exactly what a week apart does to the two of you, and she glances at his unruly hair and sleep-wrinkled crewneck with a knowing, highly judgmental smirk. She lifts her wrist, tapping her watch aggressively. "But she said we had the keys for the weekend and to come whenever! 'Whenever' in competition mode means exactly zero-seven-hundred. We have sixty days, Zuko. Sixty! Sokka is already stressing over the seating chart, and if the dance isn't perfect, I'm going to lose my mind. Loose limbs and lagging are not a part of the components!"
Behind her, a couple of the dancers have already migrated toward the kitchen island, drawn in by the rich, automated purr of the Espresso machine like moths to a flame.
"Oh my god, is that a built-in espresso bar?" one of the girls whispers, her eyes wide as she stares at the multi-tiered setup. "Can we use this? I feel like I'm running on pure adrenaline and a prayer."
Zuko lets out a low, defeated huff, the last lingering trace of his unshakeable CEO persona completely evaporating as he closes the front door. He looks toward the dark hallway leading to the master bedroom, where you are still blissfully, hilariously passed out in his bed, entirely unaware of the stampede currently setting up stretching blocks in your living room.
"Go ahead," Zuko murmurs to the girls in the kitchen, waving a hand toward the coffee pods as a slow, slightly vengeful smirk begins to pull at his lips. He looks back at Suki, who is already tapping her pen against her clipboard. "Make whatever you need. I'm going to go... wake the instigator of this timeline. Trust me, she's all yours."
Zuko turns on his heel and navigates the quiet hallway, the loud, energetic chatter from the kitchen slowly fading behind him. He pushes the heavy master bedroom door open, stepping back into the dim, cool sanctuary of his bedroom.
You haven't moved an inch from the warm divot he left behind. The plush duvet is pulled all the way up to your ears, your braids fanned across his silk pillows, and one bare foot is peeking out from beneath the covers, completely dead to the world. You look peaceful, soft, and entirely smug in your sleep—a stark contrast to the absolute drill sergeant currently pacing your living room.
Zuko walks up to your side of the mattress, a slow, incredibly wicked smirk pulling at his lips. He doesn't bother being gentle.
He reaches down, grips the edge of the heavy duvet, and yanks it completely off your body in one swift motion, tossing it to the foot of the bed.
The sudden blast of the crisp, fifty-eight-degree AC hits your bare skin like a bucket of ice water. You let out a violent, high-pitched shriek of absolute betrayal, your eyes snapping open as your entire body curls into a tight, defensive ball on the mattress.
"Zuko! What the actual fuck!" you yell, your voice a raspy, sleep-ruined screech as you blindly reach around the mattress for a pillow to shield yourself. "It is freezing! Are you trying to kill me? What happened to the fifteen minutes? What happened to the gentleman who was—"
"The fifteen minutes expired about fourteen hours ago, princess," Zuko interrupts smoothly. He leans his large frame over the mattress, his hands coming down on either side of your hips, locking you into place as he looks down at your frantic, shivering form. The absolute satisfaction in his golden eyes is glowing. "And your captain is currently in my kitchen instructing my amenities on precision and eighth-counts."
You freeze, a pillow clutched tightly against your chest as your brain frantically tries to process his words. "My... what?"
"Suki," Zuko clarifies, his voice dropping into that quiet, gravelly register that means he is thoroughly enjoying your demise. He reaches down, picks up your glowing phone from the nightstand, and hovers the screen directly over your face. "Do you remember the text you sent at eleven-thirty last night? Right after you promised to perform beautifully for dessert?"
Your eyes scan the screen, landing on your own enthusiastic words: “Studio secured, baby! ...come whenever!” and then, right beneath it, Suki’s ominous, militaristic response: “Perfect. We meet at the lobby at 7:30 a.m. sharp.”
The realization hits you like a freight train. Your jaw drops, your eyes widening into saucers as a cold sweat breaks out over your skin. "Oh my God."
"Exactly," Zuko murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow, teasing line along your bare thigh, right over the tight muscles he’d masterfully unraveled just hours before. "There are highly disciplined, exceptionally loud women currently setting up a military grid against my accent wall. Ming is dragging a cooler of ice across my hardwood. And Suki is currently tapping her clipboard, wondering why her maid of honor is lagging."
You let out a pathetic, muffled groan, slamming the pillow directly over your face to drown out the reality of your situation. "No. No, no, no. Tell them I died. Tell them you put me through the mattress and I’m immobile. Tell them I caught a rare, sudden case of the avian flu and I have twenty-four hours to live."
"I'm not lying to Suki for you," Zuko chuckles roughly, his hands sliding under your waist to effortlessly hoist your dead-weight body up into a sitting position. He leans in, pressing a firm, brief kiss to your lips—tasting the faint, sweet residual of the night before—before pulling back with a mocking salute. "Sokka is already losing his mind over the seating charts, and I am not getting caught in the crossfire of her bridal wrath. Up. You made the timeline, princess. Now go dance."
You huff, a look of pure betrayal overtaking your features. “You DID put me through the mattress. You fucking put me through the bathroom wall, the kitchen counter—if I had known better I would have thought we were recreating Ming’s birthday repercussions. I–I, don’t you feel bad for your baby? Your lover? Your princess?”
Zuko’s shoulders shake as a sudden, choked-back laugh escapes him. He catches himself, pinching the bridge of his nose in a desperate bid to keep his face completely neutral, but that betraying dimple pops right into his cheek anyway. The vivid, shameless inventory of the penthouse surfaces you both thoroughly abused until three in the morning has his ears turning a faint, telltale shade of pink.
"Recreations of Ming's birthday aside," he murmurs, his deep voice carrying a rough, incredibly smug heat as he looks down at you. He doesn't pull his hands away from your waist; instead, his large palms flatten against your bare skin, his thumbs stroking slow, teasing circles right above your hip bones. "I feel an immense amount of sympathy for my princess. Truly. If it were up to me, you'd be spending the rest of the day exactly where you are, recovering from the exact... activities you just listed. God knows you earned the rest after the workout you gave me."
He leans down just an inch further, his dark hair brushing against your forehead as his gaze darkens with a sudden, warm intensity that calls back to the absolute dominance he wielded during that black-card-enforced weekend lockdown.
"But I'm a businessman, beautiful. I know how to calculate risk. And the risk of harboring a fugitive from Suki's wedding itinerary outweighs my ability to protect you right now," he states, oozing that same supreme corporate confidence that makes you melt. "Last time, you chose choice two and skipped out on the girls. If I try to enforce a choice two quarantine on you this morning, Suki will actually tear down my house and level the floor."
"You are a coward, Prince," you rasp into the pillow, though you finally lower it past your eyes to glare up at him with a thoroughly dramatic, exhausted pout. "A wealthy, athletic coward. Where is that dominant energy from last night? Use your authority to evict them."
"I am a survivor," Zuko corrects smoothly, his lips twisting into a wicked, devastatingly handsome smirk as he leans down to press one more lingering, possessive kiss to your neck. "And unlike my boardroom meetings, I cannot buy out the Kyoshi Warriors dance team. Up. You made the timeline, princess. Now go dance."
Right on cue, the muffled, sharp sound of Suki’s voice carries down the hallway from the kitchen, easily cutting through the heavy mahogany barrier of the bedroom door.
"—if she's not out here in three minutes, I'm starting the dynamic warm-ups without her, and she can do fifty high-knees as a penalty!"
Zuko raises an eyebrow, entirely amused by your instant physical flinch. "Make that two minutes. Go get 'em, maid of honor."
You slam the pillow aside, eyes narrow as you look up at your man. “I had full ambitions on dancing for you tonight, but after this performance—I’m not so sure. You meanie,” you roll away from him, immediately groaning as your body protests in full. Your muscles are tight and your back practically shatters as it releases several loud pops.
Zuko’s low, rumbling chuckle follows you across the mattress, the bed creaking slightly as he shifts his weight. Even without looking at him, you can feel the smug heat radiating off his bare chest, entirely unbothered by your empty threats.
"Is that a promise or a negotiation tactic, princess?" His voice carries that deep, husky rasp of a man who knows exactly how high the stakes are when it comes to your midnight choreography. He doesn't let you stay rolled away for long; his large, warm hand stretches across the expanse of the sheets, his palm settling flat against the center of your back just as a particularly loud pop echoes from your spine.
He winces slightly in sympathy, his thumb immediately digging into a tight knot near your shoulder blade with a practiced, firm pressure. "Because if you think a little morning betrayal is going to keep you from dancing for me later, you’ve highly underestimated my negotiating power. Be a good girl for me and get ready? So we can start your morning right, okay?"
"It’s already all wrong. I miss you. I want to cuddle and practically live in your skin," you mumble into the mattress, a pathetic, half-strangled moan slipping past your lips as his hand works out a vicious ache in your lower back. " I don’t wanna go dance for anyone that’s not you right now. And my body hurts.”
He presses a kiss right in the middle of your shoulder blades. “I know baby, but that’s just the sleep deprivation and soreness talking. The moment you go out there you’re going to be okay. Bonus points too, we’re walking in the wedding together, I’ll also be seeing this performance on the big day, so it’s practice."
You let out a long, dramatic whine, burying your face deeper into the pillow as the sheer logic of his words hits you. There is nothing more frustrating than your intensely serious, high-powered boyfriend being completely right when you just want to be a stubborn, lazy tyrant.
“You’re cheating,” you mumble, your voice muffled by the fabric. “Using the actual wedding to manipulate me into compliance.”
Zuko lets out a rough chuckle that resonates beautifully against your back. His large palm slides from your spine up to the nape of your neck, his thumb tracing the sensitive skin right beneath your hairline to soothe the tension. “It’s called standard operational efficiency, princess. Now, up. Before Suki barges in here and realizes I’m the one enabling your lagging.”
He doesn't give you a choice to slide back into the warm sheets. With a smooth, effortless lift, his strong arms hook around your waist and pull your dead-weight frame up until you’re sitting on the edge of the mattress, your bare legs dangling over the side. He reaches for the oversized t-shirt he laid out, pulling it over your head with a gentle, patient care that completely contradicts the firm boundaries he’s setting.
As your head pops through the collar, you glare at him through narrowed, sleep-heavy eyes. His dark hair is still wildly messy and he is looking down at you with a gaze so fiercely smitten it makes your chest ache.
“Two minutes,” he whispers, leaning down to press a firm, sweet kiss to your lips that leaves you wishing for him to lock the door and rot away for the day. He steps back, offering his large hand to pull you onto your shaking legs. “Go conquer the eight-counts. I’ll make sure the coffee keeps a steady flow for you and the army in the living room.”
You drag your sore, trembling body into the master bathroom, immediately grabbing your toothbrush to scrub away the sweet, heavy residuals of the night before. After splashing cold water on your face to force your heavy eyelids open, you handle the peeling process in reverse: slipping a fresh sports bra on underneath Zuko’s oversized t-shirt and squeezing your aching thighs into a tight pair of spandex shorts.
The second you step out of the hallway and into the main living space, the sheer transition of energy hits you like a brick wall.
The penthouse is completely occupied. Half the Kyoshi Warriors are scattered across your polished hardwood, executing deep, synchronized leg stretches directly in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, openly admiring the breathtaking morning skyline of the city. Over at the kitchen island, a few of the other girls are huddled around the coffee-bar, giggling as they froth milk and customize high-end lattes like they're at a five-star cafe.
"Why is everything so incredibly early?" you groan aloud, leaning heavily against the structural pillar near the entryway as you rub your eyes. "I am quite literally running on absolute empty right now."
Suki turns on her heel, her clipboard resting against her hip as a brilliant, deeply amused smirk takes over her features. She takes in your dazed expression and the slight sway in your posture, completely seeing through you. "Please. You should have known your limits, maid of honor. Don't blame the schedule for your lack of time management."
"I was a victim of circumstances and intense love," you fire back smoothly, your voice still carrying that sleepy, raspy edge. You deliberately slide your gaze across the kitchen, side-eyeing Zuko where he stands by the stove, calmly pouring steaming water over his morning tea leaves.
A chorus of knowing giggles instantly erupts from the girls stretching by the window, and Ming almost chokes on her espresso.
Zuko doesn't even lift his head from his tea, but that betraying, handsome smile pulls at his cheek as his shoulders subtly shake with a quiet chuckle. He keeps his focus entirely on his mug, completely unbothered by being publicly blamed for your physical demise.
Suki rolls her eyes dramatically, tapping her pen against the choreo sheets. "Well, if you had actually bothered to read the rest of the group thread last night instead of being a victim, you would know that the timeline was moved up for a reason. Bad weather is supposed to hit the area by two p.m. sharp. Torrential downpours and high winds—which means we need to get down to the fourth floor, run through the crybaby section, and get these girls back to their apartments before the roads get hazardous."
You let out a long, tragic sigh, your head dropping back against the pillar as the flawless logic of her scheduling leaves you completely cornered. "A weather delay. Perfect. Of course the sky is conspiring against my physical recovery."
"Exactly. So stop lagging and grab a caffeine fix before I issue a twenty-high-knee penalty," Suki directs, though her sharp eyes soften with a fond, knowing warmth as she turns back to check the alignment of the girls stretching by the glass.
You slowly untangle yourself from the pillar, your legs doing a funny, shaky little dance as you navigate the hardwood toward the kitchen island. The girls at the counter automatically part like the Red Sea, offering you a cup of freshly frothed caramel macchiato with sympathetic, highly amused smiles.
"Here you go, honorary co-captain," Ming whispers, sliding the porcelain mug into your hands. "We made it extra strong. Figure you need the performance enhancement more than any of us today."
"You have no idea," you mumble, taking a massive, desperate gulp of the sweet warmth.
As you savor the immediate rush of sugar and caffeine, a large, warm palm settles flat against the small of your back. The heat of his hand seeps instantly through the thin cotton of your oversized t-shirt, his thumb tracing a slow, grounding circle against your spine that brings a familiar, heavy shiver straight to your core.
You look up over your shoulder, your dazed, heavy-lidded gaze meeting his pretty gold eyes. He has finally abandoned his tea station, his unruly dark hair framing his sharp jawline as he stands close enough for your shoulder to brush the soft fabric of his crewneck.
"Better?" he murmurs, his deep, sleepy baritone entirely private, meant only for your ears despite the chaotic dancers currently dominating his penthouse.
"Marginally," you rasp, leaning back into his solid frame for just a brief second to steal his balance. "You're still a meanie for pulling the blanket off me, though. My back practically shattered on the walk out here."
Zuko lets out a chuckle that makes your heart swoon. He doesn't pull his hand away; instead, his fingers grip your hip beneath the hem of his shirt, giving the tight muscle a firm, knowing squeeze that carries a heavy, unmistakable promise of what's waiting for you once the storm clears.
"You're doing great, princess," he whispers against your temple, his breath hot and sweet. "Go give Suki her precision. I'll have a massive spread of carbs waiting up here the second the downpour hits."
“It’s right by the pool on that floor,” Zuko adds, his hand lingering on your hip for one last, supportive second. He glances over the sea of duffel bags and high-energy dancers, then looks back down at you. “I can walk you guys down if you want to make sure the concierge unlocked the right entry pad.”
You look up at him, your eyebrows raising as you take a slow, deliberate sip of your caramel macchiato. “Not unless you plan on carrying me right back up, Prince,” you murmur, a sleepy but dangerous little smile playing on your lips. “Because the second we get into that elevator alone, I am liable to run away with you and abandon this entire choreography block.”
Zuko lets out a low, rough rumble of a laugh, his golden eyes darkening with immediate amusement. “Understood. I'll stay up here, then. For Suki’s sake.”
"Wise choice," you tease, finally tearing yourself away from his warmth. You turn to the living room and clap your hands together, summoning every ounce of maid-of-honor authority you can muster. "Alright, Warriors! Down to the fourth floor. Follow me, it's by the pool."
The penthouse instantly erupts into a flurry of movement. The girls scoop up their gym bags, yoga mats, and customized lattes, filing into the private elevator foyer in a loud, chatting cluster.
As the elevator doors slide open, the whole group marches inside. The heavy hits of caffeine are finally starting to work their magic, circulating through everyone's veins. Slowly but surely, the entire room is coming alive. The dazed morning silence completely evaporates, replaced by the sharp, rhythmic snaps of chewing gum, the rustle of athletic track pants, and a few girls already humming the transition music of the choreography.
By the time the elevator chimes and the doors open onto the luxurious, glass-walled pool deck of the fourth floor, the energy is electric. You step out at the front of the pack, feeling the tight ache in your muscles loosen up just enough to get you into a groove. You might have been dismantled seven ways till Sunday last night, but as you catch your reflection in the glass doors of the massive, mirrored dance studio, you finally smile.
It's time to work.
The moment the heavy glass doors swing shut behind the group, the space transforms from a luxury building amenity into a high-end dance studio running on a strictly monitored corporate clock. The room is immaculate, boasting pristine, light-oak sprung floors that give just enough to protect aching joints, a massive sound system that fills the air with a low, expectant hum, and floor-to-ceiling mirrors that capture every single movement in agonizing detail.
Suki drops her clipboard onto a bench, instantly assumes her position at the front of the room, and taps her phone against the auxiliary dock.
"Alright, clear the floor of bags! We have a solid five and a half hours before the roads get completely unmanageable," Suki calls out, a competitive, fiercely determined glint in her eyes as she cranks the volume dial on the wall unit. "Which means we are running the entire first half into the ground. Formations for the breakdown section. Let's go!"
Suki turns the music up to a level that is absolutely deafening. The heavy, thumping bass rattles straight through the oak sprung floors and vibrates into the soles of your sneakers, completely consuming the room. When the music blows up like that, the rest of the world completely ceases to exist.
For the next two hours, the studio becomes an absolute vacuum of intense focus, flying hair, and sharp, military-style discipline. True to her reputation, Suki is an exceptional captain—running the block with an iron-clad structure, yet maintaining a balanced energy that keeps the room motivated. She is equally as giving with her praise as she is with her critiques, making it impossible for anyone to lose focus.
"Ming, that extension on the third eighth-count was gorgeous, beautiful lines!" Suki barks out over the thumping bass of the track, her eyes tracking the mirror reflection. "But your trailing ankle is lazy on the pivot. Snapping it in, girls! I need to hear the floor squeak on that transition!"
You find your placement in the center-left grid, the heavy caramel macchiato and the adrenaline finally locking your mind into deep muscle memory. Your thighs still burn with every deep squat, and your lower back lets out a quiet protest whenever you drop into a low roll, but the collective, driving energy of the twelve women around you pulls you entirely out of your exhaustion.
"Yes, y/n! That is the exact precision I'm talking about!" Suki praises loudly as you hit a sharp, isolated head-roll right on the beat, a wide grin breaking across her face. "Keep that exact height in your hips for the transition. But don't rush the tempo! You're anticipating the downbeat because you want to get back to Zuko. Trust the count!"
The entire room breaks into a breathless chorus of giggles, but nobody breaks formation. The synchronization is breathtaking—twelve bodies moving as a singular, powerful unit against the backdrop of the massive indoor pool just outside the glass. Suki pushes the group through run after run, stopping only to tweak a hand placement or demand more explosive energy from the back row, her enthusiasm completely infectious.
The music is so punishingly loud, the bass so thick and encompassing, that none of you even notice the sky outside the massive windows completely changing color. While you are entirely lost in the eight-counts, the morning light rapidly drains from the area, replaced by an eerie, deep-purple hue. Massive, violent sheets of torrential rain suddenly begin slamming against the thick glass panes, and a jagged, blinding flash of lightning tears across the city skyline, followed by a heavy rumble of thunder that would usually shake the room.
But inside the studio, you don't hear a single thing. The storm has rolled in significantly earlier than expected, completely drowning out under the thumping bass of the bridal choreography.
By the time the final notes of the wedding track fade out for the tenth time, every single girl is bent over, hands on their knees, chests heaving as sweat drips onto the polished oak floor.
"And... hold!" Suki commands, staring intensely at the final pose in the mirror for three agonizing seconds before her face completely softens into a bright, triumphant smile. She claps her hands together loudly. "Beautiful! Clean, sharp, and perfectly timed. That’s a wrap on the breakdown! Let’s take a five minute break, we got about two hours left."
You drop your hands to your knees, your chest heaving as the sudden drop in volume leaves your ears ringing. A collective chorus of heavy breathing, groans, and the rustle of water bottles echoes through the mirrored room.
"Oh, thank god," Ming pants, practically collapsing onto the nearest bench and fanning herself with a stray choreo sheet. "If we didn't stop, my legs were going to physically detach from my torso."
You lift the hem of your top to wipe the sweat from your forehead, your heart hammering a wild, fast rhythm against your ribs. The initial rush of the caramel macchiato has officially leveled out into pure, hard-earned adrenaline. Your body is screaming from the sheer combination of last night's marathon and today's grueling precision blocks, but the high of hitting every single transition flawlessly has a loopy, satisfied smile stuck on your face.
Because the studio is wrapped entirely in solid walls of mirrors to track your lines, you can't actually see the outside world from inside the room. A few of the girls crack open the heavy glass studio doors and jog across the hall to the communal restrooms. The second they step into the corridor, a loud gasp echoes back into the dance space.
"Uh... guys? You need to come look at this," one of the girls calls out from the hallway.
You and Suki pad over to the doorway, joining the others as they press their noses against the hallway's massive, floor-to-ceiling windows. The view of the city skyline has completely vanished. In its place is a wall of pitch-black clouds and violent, swirling sheets of water that look like they're trying to cave the building in. Lightning cracks across the dark sky in a jagged, blinding web, illuminating the streets below where water is already starting to pool heavily against the curbs.
"Whoa," Suki breathes, her eyes widening as she watches a violent flash of lightning illuminate the dark clouds. "The music was so loud I didn't even notice. The front must have accelerated. That is not a standard afternoon shower."
Right on cue, your phone vibrates in your hand. You slide your thumb across the screen to find a fresh text thread from Zuko:
The weather service just issued a flash flood warning for the downtown grid, and they're starting to close the lower parkways. The roads are going to be a hazard soon.
I’m giving you two choices, princess. Choice one: cut the practice short and bring the army back up to the penthouse right now so everyone is safe before it gets worse. Choice two: stay down there until one p.m. like you’re supposed to, but your friends aren't leaving this building until the eye passes.
A fond smile tugs at your lips as you quickly type back: We've got about two hours left on the schedule, boss. Suki just called a break but we want to finish strong. We'll ride it out down here until one.
His reply is almost instantaneous, showing his standard corporate efficiency:
Understood. I'll make sure the penthouse is ready for twelve soaked dancers at one. Next set of choices: do you want me to order catering from the steakhouse downstairs, or do you want something homemade? I can whip up a massive batch of comfort food if my princess wants a warm home cooked meal after running her eighth-counts.
Your heart does a stupid little flip at the mention of his homemade cooking. You look up from the screen, turning to Suki and the girls who are still marveling at the apocalyptic weather outside the hallway windows.
"Well, the roads are officially flooding, so nobody is leaving the building after we're done," you announce, holding up your phone. "Zuko is officially hosting the storm-out. Suki, we're good to stay until one, but he needs a executive decision from the floor: do we want catering from the luxury restaurant downstairs, or do we want him to cook us a massive, homemade comfort meal?"
The hallway immediately erupts into a flurry of excited chatter, the girls completely forgetting about the apocalyptic weather outside the glass at the mention of a billionaire-caliber food selection.
"Wait, did you say he can cook?" Ming asks, her eyes lighting up as she checks her phone. "Because after five hours of Suki's drill-sergeant formations, I need an ungodly amount of carbohydrates or I will actually perish."
"Why choose?" another dancer chimes in, leaning against the hallway wall with a grin. "If he's offering a luxury restaurant and a kitchen takeover, we should absolutely execute a tactical combination. See if the steakhouse downstairs does brick-oven pizza, and ask if he can whip up a massive batch of that spicy homemade pasta he made for your anniversary!"
Suki turns away from the window, a highly amused smirk playing on her lips as she taps her pen against her clipboard. "I heavily endorse the pasta-and-pizza alliance. If we're trapped in this building until the eye of the storm passes, I want to be entirely comatose on Zuko’s giant living room couch. Tell him we want both."
The entire group instantly champions the idea, a chorus of "Yes!" and "Carb loading!" echoing through the high-ceilinged corridor.
You laugh, shaking your head as you quickly look down at your screen to text the chef back.
The floor has voted unanimously for a compromise, your honor. They want a combination. If you can make your homemade pasta and we can order a few pizzas from the restaurant downstairs, it’s a massive win.
You hit send and look up at the girls, who are already starting to herd themselves back into the mirrored studio to maximize the rest of their rehearsal time.
Zuko’s response flashes onto your screen three seconds later, oozing his signature, effortless confidence:
Consider the executive compromise approved, princess. I’ll call down to the manager right now to secure the pizzas for one o’clock sharp, and I’ll put the water on the stove for pasta now. You have exactly two hours left on your timeline. Don't push your thighs too hard on the bridge section—I still want you walking by tonight.
Your face flushes a fierce, hot pink as you quickly slide the phone into your spandex shorts, a loopy smile taking over your features. You turn back toward the studio, the heavy, thumping bass of the wedding track already starting to boom through the glass doors as Suki resets the audio.
"Alright, ladies!" you call out, finding your spot in the center-left grid as the adrenaline hits your veins all over again. "Two hours left until a literal mountain of carbs. Let's get these eight-counts perfect!"
The last two hours are pure grit. The initial rush of caffeine completely fades, leaving the entire room relying on sheer willpower and the promise of Zuko’s carb mountain to get through the final blocks. By the time Suki finally calls for a cool-down stretch, the girls practically collapse into their seated forward folds, letting out a collective, synchronized sigh of relief as they reach for their toes.
When the rehearsal finally wraps at one o'clock sharp, you lead the thoroughly exhausted, sweaty army back into the private elevator. The ride up to the penthouse is dead quiet compared to the morning, everyone leaning heavily against the glass walls as the elevator glides up to your sanctuary.
The moment the doors slide open into the penthouse foyer, the rich, mouth-watering aroma of garlic, fresh basil, and bubbling brick-oven pizza hits everyone like a warm hug. Zuko has clearly been busy; the massive kitchen island is already stacked with luxury takeout boxes from the steakhouse downstairs, alongside a massive, steaming pot of his signature homemade pasta.
"Alright, nobody touches the food until we are clean," Suki commands, though her own stomach lets out a loud, betraying rumble. "We are soaked in sweat and the rain is getting worse."
You step forward, playing the ultimate host as you drop your gym bag. "Before anyone runs for a shower, check your gear! Does everyone have a fresh change of clothes?"
A chorus of tired "Yeahs" ripples through the group as they unzip their duffels. Only one of the dancers raises her hand with a sheepish look. "I brought clean spandex, but I totally forgot a dry shirt."
"I got you," you smile, instantly grabbing a soft, oversized flannel from the entryway coat rack and tossing it to her. "Keep it."
From there, Zuko’s sprawling penthouse becomes an absolute masterclass in logistical comfort. With four high-end bathrooms scattered across the layout, the transition from sweaty athletes to cozy houseguests is flawlessly efficient. Three of the girls claim the en-suite bathrooms in the spacious guest bedrooms, while another group forms a neat, polite line for the main hallway bathroom situated directly between the guest rooms and Zuko’s private office.
Because the studio is wrapped entirely in solid walls of mirrors, the girls didn't fully realize how brutal the weather had gotten until they exited the dance room to cross the hall. Now, safely upstairs, they can see the full force of the storm through the penthouse's panoramic glass.
Suki and Ming follow you straight toward the master suite to claim the giant walk-in steam shower and double vanities. However, you decide to claim the absolute last shift for the shower, entirely content to wait your turn while still draped in Zuko’s oversized T-shirt. Your muscles are humming with that deep, heavy post-workout exhaustion that makes every movement feel slow and entirely fluid.
Instead of resting on the couch, you occupy the kitchen space with Zuko, drawn in by the rich, savory heat of the stove and the grounding presence of your man.
Zuko is in full operational mode, his broad shoulders moving with practiced, easy grace as he sets out heavy ceramic bowls, carves up the brick-oven pizzas, and portions out massive tongs of the steaming, fragrant pasta. He’s already changed out of his morning crewneck into a soft, dark-charcoal tee that hugs his back perfectly.
You don't say a word at first. You simply glide into his space, sliding right under his arm like a puzzle piece finding its missing slot. Your arm wraps tightly around his waist, your palm flattening against his warm stomach as you anchor yourself parallel to his side. As he moves around the kitchen—stepping from the island to the stove, reaching up into the high cabinets for extra wine glasses, turning to adjust the heat on the burner—you move exactly with him, trailing his large body like a silent, utterly devoted shadow. You don't let go for a single second, your bare feet padding softly against the hardwood right in sync with his steps.
Zuko doesn't even blink at the sudden attachment. He simply adjusts his stride, a soft, incredibly fond grunt escaping him as his free hand comes down to wrap over yours, his thumb rubbing comforting, slow circles into the back of your knuckles while he checks the pasta.
When he stops at the main counter to finish plating, you shift your position, sliding entirely behind him. You wrap both of your arms around his thick waist, leaning your weight fully against his solid back. Your face presses right between his shoulder blades, inhaling the clean, familiar scent of his skin and the faint trace of tea leaves.
"Thank you," you mumble, your voice muffled against the soft cotton of his shirt as the heavy rain lashes against the windows. "Thank you for opening up your home to the girls. And for the carbs. You're the best."
Zuko pauses, his large frame relaxing entirely into your embrace. He lets out a low, deeply rumbling chuckle that vibrates beautifully right through his back and straight into your chest. He turns his head slightly, his sharp, shadowed jawline brushing against your hair as he tries to look back at you.
"You don't have to thank me for taking care of your people, princess," he murmurs, his gravelly voice dripping with that quiet, unshakeable certainty that always makes your stomach flip. He covers your interlaced hands with his own, squeezing you tightly against him. "Besides, I told you I calculate risk. Feeding an army of Kyoshi Warriors is significantly safer than facing Suki’s wrath if they all got stuck on the lower parkway."
He turns around in your arms, his large hands sliding up to frame your face, tilting your head up so his golden eyes can scan your sleepy, flush features. A tender, devastatingly pretty smile breaks across his face.
"Now go get in the shower before the food gets cold," he whispers, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. "Your spot on the couch is already secured."
Within forty-five minutes, the entire penthouse is completely transformed into a haven of ultimate relaxation. The air is filled with the clean, fresh scents of luxury body washes, expensive shampoos, and the soothing hum of hairdryers. One by one, the girls emerge clad in oversized sweatpants, plush hoodies, and thick cabin socks.
Some of the dancers stake out territory on the massive, deep-cushioned living room sofa, sprawling out to do some light, post-shower stretching on the plush area rug. Others immediately migrate back to the kitchen island, where Zuko is calmly pouring glasses of wine, water, and passing out plates of hot food to the ravenous crew.
Once you finally finish your own hot shower, scrubbing away the sweat of the studio and the residual exhaustion of the morning, you slide into your absolute softest pair of fleece sweatpants and a fresh crop top. Walking back into the main living space, you feel like a completely new person—clean, warm, and utterly hollowed out by hunger.
The living room has turned into a total sanctuary. The track lighting is dimmed low, casting a cozy, amber glow across the vast room that cuts right through the gray, stormy gloom outside.
Suki and Ming have already staked out a massive corner of the sectional, entirely draped in plush throw blankets with their plates resting precariously on their laps. The rest of the girls are scattered across the oversized area rug, leaning against floor cushions, unashamedly devouring the brick-oven pizzas and mounds of Zuko's spicy pasta.
"Oh, look who decided to join the living," Suki calls out around a mouthful of garlic crust, her strict captain persona completely dissolved into pure, post-rehearsal bliss. "Sit down before Ming steals the last piece of the margherita."
"I would never," Ming defends herself dramatically, though she is already eyeing the box. "But seriously, girl, your man is an absolute saint. I knew he was golden after the golf incident, but this pasta? Easily makes him a unicorn of an individual."
You laugh, navigating around a maze of stretched-out legs to reach the kitchen island. Zuko is leaning against the marble counter, casually sipping his tea while watching the chaotic, comfortable scene unfold in his living room. The second your eyes meet his, that warm, private glint returns to his golden gaze.
Without a word, he reaches behind him and slides a perfectly portioned, steaming plate of pasta and two slices of pizza toward you—completely saved and protected from the ravenous crowd. Next to it sits a fresh glass of your favorite white wine.
"Calculated risk management," Zuko murmurs smoothly, his deep voice carrying that low, gravelly rasp as you slide onto the barstool next to him. "I knew if I didn't hide a plate for you, you'd be fighting Suki for the leftovers."
"You are a visionary, Prince," you breathe, instantly wrapping your hand around the fork and taking a massive, incredibly satisfying bite. The rich, savory heat of his cooking hits your tongue, and you let out a low, pathetic moan of pure appreciation, your eyes closing briefly. "Oh my god. I forgive you for pulling the covers off me. This fixes everything."
Zuko lets out a low, rough chuckle, his large hand coming up to rest on the back of your neck. His thumb traces a slow, soothing line right along your hairline, his touch heavy and grounding. "Good. Because the storm radar just showed the lower parkway is officially underwater. Looks like your army is staying for dinner, too."
A collective cheer erupts from the sectional the second Zuko mentions the lower parkway being underwater, the realization dawning on everyone that no one is driving anywhere tonight.
"Well, it's official," Suki announces, sinking deeper into her pile of plush blankets with a triumphant grin. "The storm has formally commandeered the weekend. We are turning this into an executive slumber party."
The kitchen island quickly transforms into an operations desk as you pull open the deep hallway linen cabinets, tossing out an absolute mountain of oversized pillows, silk sheets, and heavy down duvets. The girls gather around, eagerly catching the bedding and designating sleeping territories across the massive living room rug and the sprawling sectional.
Zuko watches the nesting process unfold from his spot by the marble counter, setting his empty tea mug down with a calm, completely unfazed expression. He leans down, pressing a quiet, lingering kiss to your temple that carries the warm scent of his morning tea.
"I'm going to retreat to the bedroom to read and put on a documentary," he murmurs against your skin, his deep baritone completely private over the loud chatter of the girls arguing over who gets the long side of the couch. He glances at his watch, a slow, knowing smirk playing on his lips. "I'm entirely certain Sokka is going to call me within the hour to get on the game. The second he realizes Suki is trapped here for the night, he’s going to treat his newfound freedom like a national holiday."
You let out a rich, breathy laugh, your hand sliding up his chest to adjust the collar of his charcoal tee. "Go ahead, Prince. Escape while you can. I'll make sure they don't break anything expensive."
"I'm holding you to that," he chuckles softly, giving your hip one last, grounding squeeze before turning on his heel and navigating the quiet hallway toward the master suite, successfully evacuating the baseline chaos.
The second the heavy master bedroom door clicks shut, the girls look at you like apex predators who just saw the zookeeper leave.
"Alright, the landlord is gone!" Ming cheers, hopping off her floor cushion and marching straight toward the kitchen cabinets. "Y/n, where does the Prince keep the high-end liquor? Because a five-hour rehearsal followed by a flash flood warning demands top-shelf tequila."
You cackle, guiding her to the hidden panel in the wet bar where Zuko keeps the good stuff. Within ten minutes, the entire mood of the penthouse shifts from a relaxing post-workout recovery into a loud, lawless, giggly oversharing mess. The state-of-the-art surround sound speakers are dialed down to a low, rhythmic hum, completely drowned out by the sound of ice shaking, salt shakers hitting the counter, and the first round of lime-induced winces.
You drag out a massive stack of card games and board games from the living room console, dumping them into the center of the floor cushions. By shot number three, the games are completely abandoned in favor of raw, unadulterated gossip.
The living room becomes a symphony of high-pitched giggles and breathless shouting matches. The girls are sprawled across the area rug in a chaotic tangle of limbs and fleece sweatpants, their filters entirely dissolving under the influence of the tequila and the cozy, storm-locked atmosphere. Suki is mid-sentence, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten slice of margherita pizza as she loudly narrates an embarrassing story about Sokka’s complete meltdown over the wedding seating chart, prompting Ming to literally choke on her drink from laughing so hard.
Every few minutes, a loud, collective roar of laughter echoes off the floor-to-ceiling glass windows where the rain is still aggressively battering the city. From down the hall, you can faintly hear the deep, velvety, familiar cadence of Morgan Freeman’s voice narrating something educational in the master bedroom—a quiet, hilarious reminder that your very serious, intensely head-over-heels boyfriend is safely tucked away, letting you rule your kingdom.
You slide a fresh deck of cards into the center of the blanket fortress, a wicked grin on your face. It’s one of those raunchy, entirely explicit party games designed specifically to ruin friendships and strip away any remaining shards of dignity.
By the time the box flips open, the tequila has fully liquidated everyone's filters. The cozy, respectful atmosphere of the penthouse officially devolves into a lawless, loud, oversharing free-for-all.
"Alright, whoever has the next birthday draws first," Suki commands, her face flushed pink from the liquor as she leans aggressively over a giant floor cushion.
Ming snatches the first card, reading the prompt out loud before a massive, breathy cackle cuts her off. "Oh my god. 'Describe your absolute favorite sex position in vivid detail or take two shots.'" She slams the card down, pointing a finger at the group. "Look, I am not destroying my liver for modesty. We are all adults here. Honestly? If he doesn't have my legs pushed all the way back over my shoulders like a pretzel, I don't even want it."
The entire living room absolutely explodes. Several girls shriek into their throw pillows, throwing their legs into the air from sheer, hysterical laughter, while others loudly cheer and raise their glasses in solidarity.
"Pretzel style is elite, don't even play!" another dancer yells, throwing a stray piece of popcorn at Ming. "But you have to have the wedge pillow under your hips. If the angles aren't right, your lower back is cooked the next morning."
"Speaking of angles," one of the younger girls chimes in, her eyes wide and mischievous as she takes a sip straight from her solo cup, "has anyone actually successfully tried anal, or are we all just pretending it doesn't hurt like an absolute bitch?"
The question drops like a bomb, triggering a symphony of high-pitched gasps, breathless giggles, and immediate, chaotic oversharing.
"Preparation is key!" Suki shouts over the roar of the room, completely unbothered as she gestures wildly with her hands. "You can't just dive into the deep end without a warm-up, okay? It’s a tactical operation. Sokka tried to skip steps once and I almost threw him out the window of his own apartment."
"Oh my god, poor Sokka!" you cackle, your stomach physically aching from how hard you're laughing. You're sprawled out on your back against the plush rug, the sweet burn of the tequila making your entire body feel entirely floaty and relaxed.
"Don't laugh, y/n!" Ming fires back, her gaze snapping directly to you with a dangerous, knowing smirk. "You're the one co-living in a multi-million dollar sin bin. We already know Zuko looks like he handles business, but we need the data. What's the protocol in the master suite? Are we talking corporate dominance or what?"
Your face instantly turns a fierce, blinding shade of hot pink, a loud, embarrassed groan escaping your lips as you drag a silk duvet entirely over your head to hide. The girls immediately descend like wolves, tearing the blanket away as a chorus of relentless, teasing chant fills the high-ceilinged room.
"Spill it! Spill it! Spill it!"
"Look," you gasp out, trying and failing to keep a straight face as the raw honesty of the tequila takes total control of your mouth. "The tequila is winning. I have no filter, nor any shame to say that man is fucking God of some sort. Every day I discover a new reason or a new position to be thankful for that dreary cloudy bitch of a woman to have fucked up so royally that he walked away. I don’t know what mental tactics he has in his head to have a fuse that surpasses any man I’ve ever been with but just know I’m getting thoroughly devoured and beautifully fucked."
The penthouse living room practically shakes with the sheer volume of the girls' chaotic, ecstatic screaming. Suki is practically rolling on the floor, clapping her hands like a seal, while Ming looks entirely vindicated.
"I knew it!" Ming yells, raising her shot glass. "I knew the quiet, serious ones were the ones you have to watch out for!"
Down the hallway, behind the thick, sound-dampening mahogany door of the master suite, Zuko is sitting propped up against the pillows with his headset on. He’s currently mid-match, his fingers flying across the controller with practiced, intense focus as Sokka's voice chatters loudly in his ear.
But right as he guides his character around a corner, the sheer, earth-shattering volume of twelve women scream-laughing about a "dreary cloud" and "hostile takeovers" pierces directly through the heavy wood and right into his bedroom.
Zuko’s controller completely stalls. His character walks directly into a wall.
"Yo, Zuko, what are you doing? Move!" Sokka’s voice crackles impatiently through the headset. "Wait... what is that noise? Is Suki executing someone over there?"
Zuko takes a deep breath through his nose, a slow, incredibly flushed heat creeping up his neck until the tops of his ears are burning a bright, undeniable crimson. He pinches the bridge of his nose, his dark hair falling forward to shield his face as a thoroughly defeated, helpless smile tugs at his lips. He can only imagine the sheer, unfiltered filth currently exiting his princess's mouth.
"Nothing," Zuko rasps into the mic, his deep voice carrying a rough, utterly discombobulated edge as he forces his character back into motion. "Just... I don’t even know. Keep playing."
Fin
I had fun writing this one, but I have one in the works that I'm fucking obsessed with. So much so that it needs to be perfect before I share with anyone else because it's just so ahhhh? Yk? Anywhoo thanks for your patience dolls! I've been grinding at work and that mental load didnt allow for a creative triumph.
Mack💕
@calyceeee
@suyeomiiee
@daydreams-and-peace
@magnificentlyrainythunder
@mossmydarling
I uploaded twice in one day! And I'm over the moon about that. Inquiring question, I'll write it regardless of feedback, but anyone a fan of Jeon Jungkook (from BTS) because I have a killer WIP based on him and I cant wait to share. 🌝
Hope y'all have a wonderful week!!!🫶🏾
Mack💕
18+ MDNI, 17k words
Logistical Pining
Synopsis: Your childhood friend has called you Princess all your life. One drunk night. One game of trivia. Now he calls you his---but that means something entirely different when spoken in front of your families.
Tags: dirty talk, bigdick Enjin, reader and Enjin are down bad, half plot/half smut, manhandling, fingering, sex while drunk, swearing, modern/ college au, fratEnjin, fem!reader, pet names, oral (m receiving).
Author note: We could consider this a follow up to Trivia Princess. I have a bad habit of writing for Enjin and then suddenly I'm looking at a 40k word document, but I just couldn't edit that whole thing, and I really wanted to get this out.
not proofread
“Jin, you’re not listening, and I think it’s on purpose. Stop being obtuse,” you grumble, aggressively walking into your parents’ house with him hot on your heels. There is a glint in his eyes and a blank stare on his face, his hands completely full with both of your bags.
“Y/n, I’m trying to be nice because it’s the holidays, but strike one is exactly one more smartass comment away,” he states in a matter-of-fact tone.
“How y’all gonna come into somebody else's house arguing?” your mom calls out.
The heavy thud of the front door closing behind you is immediately swallowed by the soulful grit of Mary J. Blige vibrating through the hallway. The air in your childhood home is thick—a humid, savory fog of slow-simmering greens, toasted pecans, and the sharp bite of vinegar that signals the start of the Wednesday prep.
“We aren’t arguing, Mama L,” Jin calls out, his voice instantly smoothing into that respectful, practiced charm he’s used on your mother for years.
He doesn’t drop the bags immediately. Instead, he follows you into the heart of the house, his presence taking up twice as much space in the narrow hallway as yours does. He waits until you've reached the entryway of the kitchen before he finally lets your luggage hit the floor with a dull, synchronized clack.
Before you can snap back about his “strike one” comment, he’s already moving. He sidesteps the bags and pulls your mother into a deep, genuine hug, lifting her slightly off her feet with a low chuckle.
“You know she likes to pick fights when she’s tired,” he murmurs into her hair, casting a sharp, golden side-eye in your direction that tells you the “smartass” tally is still running. “I’m just the designated punching bag for the weekend.”
“Is that right?” your mom asks, pulling back to swat at his arm before turning her narrow, knowing gaze on you. “Well, I don’t have time for the dramatics. I’m already stressed that I’m about to have all these people runnin’ in and out my house all weekend, so get it together.” She gives both of you a pointed look.
You snort. “He freaking started it, Mama.”
She tsks. “I don’t care if one of the twelve disciples started it, be sure to end it by the time you come down from putting your bags away.”
Jin’s expression doesn't flicker at your side comment, but his hand finds the small of your back—a heavy, grounding weight that acts as a reminder of his warning. “Where’s my folks? And Mr. L?”
“Out on the patio,” Mama L says, gesturing toward the back of the house with a wooden spoon. “They’re trying to convince your daddy that he doesn’t need to deep-fry a second turkey, but you know how they get once they start on that bourbon.”
Enjin lets out a short laugh. “We’ll join in a second after we get settled.” He doesn’t wait for your rebuttal, already reaching down to snag both bags with a grunt of effort that makes the muscles in his forearms cord. He nudges you toward the stairs with his elbow, his presence at your back acting like a physical wall as he herds you upward, away from the kitchen and your mother's watchful eye.
The stairs creak under his weight, a familiar rhythm that echoes years of him following you up these same steps. Once you hit the landing and duck into your childhood bedroom, the atmosphere shifts instantly. The door hasn't even fully clicked shut behind him before he drops the luggage and pins you with a look that’s equal parts exhausted and amused.
“‘He freaking started it, Mama’?” he mimics, his voice dropping into a mocking, high-pitched lilt that makes your blood boil. “You’re twenty-one years old and still running to your mother because you can't keep your mouth shut for ten minutes in the car?”
You practically bristle at the mimicry. “Oh! Is that what you—” Your words fall into the ether as you spin around, only to end up face-to-face with his chest. You tilt your head back to glare at him properly, ignoring the dark look in his eyes and the warning flashing through them. “You’re fucking doing it again. You’re being dense, Enjin. I asked a simple question: how long were y’all fucking, and did it happen in my house? Why—”
“And I answered you, Y/n. I was honest. You can’t flip your switch and be a damn brat just because you don’t like my honesty,” he snaps. The careful thread of his patience finally gives way as you raise your voice at him. An immediate no in his world.
It is a boundary you bypass and run right over, your voice still three octaves above a conversational tone. “It’s not a matter of not liking it, so don’t you dare pull that card. It’s the damn principle! Three fucking months! Three? And sure, you didn’t fuck her in my house, but what’s the irony of it all? You took her back to your place for Thanksgiving, and that’s where it all started. Do you really not see why that pisses me off? Are you being oblivious on purpose? Because it’s about to make me really earn that so-called one strike.”
The air in the room suddenly feels vacuum-sealed. Enjin doesn't move, but the atmosphere shifts from a heated argument to a dangerous, low-frequency silence. He stares down at you, his golden eyes narrowing into sharp, lethal slits.
“Lower your voice,” he commands. It isn’t a request. It is the sound of a man who has reached the end of his rope, whose holiday high has officially been decimated. He steps deeper into your space, his chest grazing your nose, forcing you to tilt your head back even further just to keep him in view. He doesn’t touch you, but the sheer wall of his presence is enough to anchor you against the edge of the bed.
You grit your teeth, your senses finally attuning to the danger.
“I was seventeen. It was six years ago. I’ve explained myself three times now. What do you want me to do? Erase it? Because I can’t.” His words are clipped, falling like stones. “I’m trying to be compromising because it’s the holidays, midterms just ended, and you just applied for early graduation—but you tell me, when is my patience allowed to run out? Huh? Because I’m at the limit, Y/n. Right now.”
His voice drops into a resonant octave that thrums through your chest. He doesn’t shout. He never has to, but the quietness of his tone is far more lethal than your screaming. He reaches out, his large hand finally closing around the nape of your neck. It’s not a squeeze, but a heavy, grounding anchor that keeps you trapped between his gaze and the mattress. His thumb traces the shell of your ear, a calming, rhythmic motion that contradicts the hardness in his eyes.
A shiver runs down your spine, goosebumps blooming along your arms. The silence feels perilous.
"Nothing to say now?" he mocks, his voice dropping into that dangerous lilt that usually signals he’s finished talking and has shifted to demonstrating.
His hand slides from the nape of your neck to the front of your throat. He doesn't squeeze; it's about control, not air. He applies just enough steady, grounded pressure to keep your head back, forcing you to look up at him without the chance of diverting your gaze. A soft, automatic whimper slips past your lips, and your eyes flutter. Your system does a messy, necessary reboot under the sudden shift in gravity, desperately trying to make sense of the room and calm down all at once—because, unfortunately, he has a point.
He watches your face for a beat, his golden eyes cataloging the way your fire turns into a hazy, responsive submission. The only sound in the bedroom is your jagged exhale as you softly shake your head, confirming you have nothing left to say.
“Wrong damn answer,” he murmurs against your skin, his breath smelling of cool, sharp mint.
He crushes his mouth to yours before you can take a full breath. It isn't a gentle kiss; it’s dominant, certain, and all-consuming. He devours you, his mouth moving with a lethal intent that makes your knees weaken. You moan into him, your resistance dissolving into a desperate need to get closer. Your hands slide underneath his hoodie, finding the warmth of his chest to ground yourself.
He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his thumb tracing your swollen lower lip. You’re breathless, your chest heaving, your eyes heavy with want instead of fire.
“You burned through your warnings, Y/n. You have two minutes to fix your face and your attitude. If you bring that energy down to your mother’s kitchen, I’m not going to be this patient twice. And I promise you, you won’t like the way I choose to end the next argument.”
He doesn’t wait for a rebuttal. He doesn’t linger to see if you’re moving; he simply steps out of the room, leaving the door cracked just enough for the light from the hallway to hit the carpet.
You hear his rhythmic tread on the stairs, navigating the house with the ease of someone who doesn't need to ask where the kitchen is. He doesn't hesitate; he moves straight through the living room and past the kitchen toward the back of the house.
The heavy slide of the glass patio door echoes up through the floorboards. Downstairs, both dads hold glasses of bourbon and wear matching aprons. Enjin's mother, Kai, is seated on the couch peeling sweet potatoes, while your mom sits right beside her cleaning and peeling shrimp, 90s R&B ringing throughout the open space. The chatter amongst the group ceases as they take in the giant figure in the doorway.
“Well, if it isn’t my prodigal son,” Mrs. Kai calls out. Enjin grunts at the sentiment, wrapping his arms over her shoulders from behind in a hug. “You never called me back, you little shit.”
He chuckles. “You spoke with Princess. Whatever she told you was probably more than what I would have said.”
His statement makes the group laugh, everyone well aware that their blonde-haired giant is a man of few words over the phone. But it also sends shared looks rippling through the room.
“Right—which I thought was interesting, since I called on a Thursday evening,” his mother muses, her eyes twinkling with a sudden, sharp focus. “Since when do you spend a night on Thursdays?”
His eyes snap toward your father, whose bourbon freezes near his lips. He lets out a low hum, his dark eyes narrowing as he lets the question settle.
“Thursday, huh, Kai?” your father asks, the glass still hovering.
She nods enthusiastically. “Called him right after I got back from the farmers market with my favorite girl.” She bumps your mother’s shoulder, who wears a shit-eating grin.
“Interrogation as soon as we get home after such a long semester,” Enjin sighs, but the smirk on his face gives him away. “Since about two months ago.”
Your mothers squeal in a synchronized burst of triumph. His father, Roy, groans, reaching for his wallet, while your dad stands speechless.
“Jin, you’re telling me what I think you’re telling me?” his dad inquires, his voice thick with a mix of disbelief and "I-knew-it."
Enjin stands up straight, releasing his mother from his warm hold. He doesn't offer a verbal confirmation yet. Instead, he turns his full attention toward the sound of the door opening again, his gaze locking onto the landing where you've finally appeared.
He tracks the way you move, noting the way your lips are tilted in a tiny, lingering smile and the fact that you’re now wearing one of his hoodies. The oversized fabric swallows your frame, making you look more like his in the eyes of your parents than ever before.
You’re unsure why everyone is staring back and forth between the two of you as if a high-stakes tennis match is occurring, but you keep your eyes locked on his.
“It’s fixed, and I apologize for my attitude,” is all you say, your voice steady despite the lingering heat in your cheeks.
Without waiting for his response, you practically skip into your dad’s open arms. Your father catches you with a loud, booming laugh, but his eyes are still fixed on Enjin, who hasn’t looked away from you for a second.
The scents of bourbon, spices, and the pool encompass you as you bury your head in his arms. “Princess! I missed you so much! Have you been eating well? And sleeping okay? — wait, no, Enjin,” he turns his line of questioning away from you while keeping you in his comforting embrace. “Have you been making sure she’s eating well and sleeping okay?”
You draw your head back, eyes wide, mouth open. “W–”
“Yes, sir,” Enjin answers, cutting through whatever excuse you are about to concoct. He doesn't even hesitate, leaning back against the bar with an effortless, grounded authority. “She still refuses to drink enough water, but I’ve officially gotten her to eat vegetables consistently. She gets at least seven hours of sleep when she isn’t being a brat.”
“I am not a brat; I’m a princess,” you retort, the oversized sleeves of his hoodie flopping as you pull away from your dad’s hold. You move toward Enjin’s dad, Roy, and wrap him in a hug as well.
“Don’t start that arguing again,” your mother demands, pointing a shrimp-deveining knife toward the two of you. She shuts down Enjin’s response before he even has the chance to fully formulate it. You click your tongue, moving across the space to continue your greetings.
“Again?” Kai echoes. Her hands pause to pull you into a hug, her sharp eyes darting between you and her son. The 90s R&B playing in the background suddenly feels like a soundtrack to a courtroom drama with a Keyshia Cole track blaring.
“Yes, they walked through the doors mid-argument. No hi. No hello. Just bickering. I would have thought they were thirteen again instead of twenty-two and twenty-three,” your mom responds with ease, her hands never pausing their rhythm with the shrimp.
You lean over and place a wet kiss against her cheek, trying to soften the blow. “Not arguing… we were debating,” you correct, sliding into the empty spot on the couch between her and Kai.
You feel Enjin’s gaze burning into the back of your neck, but you keep your eyes forward. You watch your dad and his best friend, Roy, as they switch between manning the grill and watching the scene unfold before them like it's the evening news.
“Right—sure sounded like an argument with the way you were shouting upstairs,” your mom chides, casting a knowing side-eye at the stairs.
“Enjin doesn’t yell; he’s like his father in that way,” Kai mentions, her voice smooth and observant. She doesn't look at her son, but you can feel her cataloging the tension that was in your room mere moments ago. “It’s always easier for them to just take a moment, because they know that calm reaction will only irritate you more in the long run. Was this your first argument as an official couple?”
The question feels like a cold bucket of water, snapping the playful atmosphere into something far more serious.
You whip your head to Enjin, who is moving leisurely behind the outdoor bar. He’s already pouring himself a glass of bourbon, mirroring the men at the grill. “You told them already?” you squeak, suddenly hyper-aware of the four sets of eyes tracking your every blink.
“Not quite, Princess,” Enjin murmurs, not even looking up as the amber liquid swirls in his glass. “I think they had a hypothesis and spent the past couple of weeks proving it. I was curious why my mother’s calls started happening on Thursday evenings when she usually waits until Friday afternoons. Not to mention, your mom started calling to ask questions I know they’d already cleared in their group chat.”
He finally looks over his shoulder, his golden eyes meeting yours with a look that says I told you they were ahead of us. “They didn't need me to tell them anything. They already knew the answer,” he adds, his voice dropping into that smooth, matter-of-fact register. He reaches for a bundle of herbs on the counter, his fingers lingering on the leaves. “You want fresh mint in your mojito or strained through?”
Your head falls face-forward into the couch, a long, muffled groan vibrating through the cushions at the way he makes total sense.
“Inside,” you grumble, your thoughts suddenly spiraling at the realization and everything it implies for the rest of the weekend.
Roy chuckles at your antics, watching as you try to become one with the furniture. “It’s not the end of the world, Y/n. We’ve known this day was coming since you were in grade school. It was really just a matter of when.”
Your dad nods in agreement, finally taking a sip of his bourbon. “Precisely that. I just assumed it would happen after graduation. I didn’t realize the stars were going to align during midterms.”
Beside you, your mother and Kai share a synchronized, triumphant look. “That means we won, so be ready to pay up, boys. We’re gonna make your pockets hurtttt on Black Friday,” your mother shouts excitedly.
Your neck cracks from the speed in which you turn to look at her. “Won what? Did y’all have a bet going?”
“Something like that,” Roy trails off.
“Y’all are ridiculous,” you state, your voice laced with pure astonishment. “Since when?”
“Since middle school, baby,” your mother says with a shrug. “We knew Enjin was just waiting for the right time. He told us as much when he graduated high school.”
The air leaves your lungs in a sharp whoosh. You whip your head around to look at Enjin, who is leaning against the bar with his glass of bourbon, looking entirely too unbothered.
“You knew?” you demand, your eyes wide. “You knew they had money on us? You knew they were watching us this whole time and you didn't say a word?”
Enjin doesn't flinch. He takes a slow, deliberate sip of his drink. He doesn't look guilty; if anything, he looks like a man who’s been playing a very long, very successful game.
“I wasn't going to have you overthinking things because of a fifty-dollar bet,” he murmurs, taking your favorite drink in his hand. “I wanted us to figure it out on our terms first.”
He walks toward the couch, his presence looming over you. “Besides,” he adds, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. “I figured you’d find out eventually. I just didn't expect it to happen quite like this.” He presses the chilled glass to the side of your face, cooling your warm cheeks.
“Thank you,” you whisper softly, wrapping unsteady hands around it.
“So when did it happen? How? Don’t expect us to not have any questions despite seeing this was coming,” Kai asks, as she begins cleaning the peelings that escaped her bowl.
You take a sip of the strawberry-flavored mojito. The cocktail is a perfect mix of sugar and liquor—just the way you liked it, and exactly what you need to survive this interrogation. “Labor Day weekend… after trivia night and one too many drinks on my side,” you explain.
Flashes of that night dance behind your eyelids—not a quiet night at home, but the chaos of the frat house. You remember the heavy weight of the varsity jacket around your shoulders. You remember standing on a coffee table, shouting out facts about Ramses II and the weight of the pyramids while your teammates cheered you on.
“I didn't expect the night to end the way it did,” you admit, a sheepish smile tugging at your lips. “I was on top of a table, plastered, playing, and winning trivia, and Enjin found me.”
Enjin lets out a low, amused huff from the bar, swirling his bourbon. “Found you is an interesting way of putting it,” he murmurs, his golden eyes locking onto yours with a look that says he still remembers exactly how you looked when he found you in that napkin of a skirt. “I walked in to find my princess being worshipped by a room full of idiots for knowing the Narmer Palette.”
The parents laugh, the sound warm and synchronized, but your mother’s eyes are sharp. “And that’s the night it changed? Between the pyramids and the beer?”
You take a long sip of the mojito, the strawberry flavor masking the memory of the long talk that followed. You remember the shift in the air when he finally reached for you on that table—the way he carried you out like a trophy and the execution of ‘Strike Three’ that waits for you back at the house. And, gosh, the soreness that lasts well into the weekday from the way his hands leave prints across your ass every night until Monday.
“Yes… I told him I loved him while drunk and that… that did it…” Enjin's gaze is steady on you, the smirk gone, replaced by that same raw intensity that usually stays behind closed doors. You clear your throat, trying to perform correctly with your parents’ eyes on you. “I woke up dangerously hungover, but we spoke and reached a rather lovely consensus and here we are…”
“Here we are indeed, Princess,” he smiles sweetly, a rare, unguarded look that makes your walls clinch in response.
“Don’t get cute, you got some explaining to do later,” you remark.
It draws another round of laughter from the group. The sound is warm, filling the patio and momentarily drowning out the music. Your mother and Kai share a triumphant look, likely already calculating how much they plan on scoring during the Black Friday sales.
“Oh, I’m sure he does,” your mother muses, her eyes sparkling with a mix of maternal pride and a lingering curiosity about the data she’s been collecting. “Nonetheless, we’re happy for you kiddos. Congrats on joining the Childhood Lovers group.”
Your fathers finally close the grill, conspiring about heading to your father’s lounge for a cigar. Your mothers collect their food items, prepping to head inside.
Enjin doesn't look away from you. He takes a slow, grounding sip of his bourbon, his golden eyes dark and focused—a stark contrast to the sweet smile he just offered. He adjusts from leaning on the bar and casually takes the seat his mother freed up.
“We’ll leave you two to your talk, we’ll be prepping still. Don’t take too long though, I expect both of you to help,” Kai calls over her shoulder before closing the door once all the grown folks have made their way inside.
He doesn't rush to speak. He looks at you with a slow, predatory focus, the ‘sweet son’ persona he used for the parents evaporating to reveal the man who reprimanded you on his kitchen island months ago.
“Start talkin’, pretty boy,” you demand.
Enjin hums, his cheeks slightly flushed from the bourbon. "What you want me to talk about, Baby?"
"If you had known what you wanted since high school, why the hell did you wait?"
He lets out a hearty laugh, his head thrown back as he lets the sound ring out across the patio. You pout, crossing your arms over the oversized hoodie and feeling a familiar prickle of annoyance. “Enjin,” you whine. The sound alone is enough to slow him down; he turns his head, looking at you head-on instead of through his peripheral vision.
“Yes, Baby?” he asks in a breathy register that always makes your pulse jump.
“If you knew what you wanted since high school, why did you wait?” you repeat.
He shifts in his seat, his legs opening wider to accommodate your weight as he loops an arm underneath your back, pulling you firmly into his lap.
“Do you remember the summer I moved away?” he asks, his voice dropping into a low, reflective hum.
Your eyebrows furrow, and you settle your arms around his neck loosely, the oversized fabric of his hoodie bunching between your fingers. “Yeah. I mean, not to be dramatic, but that was the worst summer of my life. What the hell does that have to do with this?”
His hands dip underneath your shirt, fingers warm as they push your yoga pants down just enough to rest on your hips. “I think my parents told you that we were moving for work. But my parents had decided to split up that summer,” he confesses softly. “I overheard my mom talking about how she felt like she didn’t know who she was outside of my dad. It made sense to me—they’ve been joined at the hip since they were five years old, together since freshman year in high school, through college, and then when my brother and I came around, she was all about us.”
He exhales slowly, settling his head back against the couch to stare at the ceiling, his grip on you tightening just a fraction.
“My dad told her to go explore and find the answers to the questions she had... and if those answers didn’t lead back to him, he would understand and support her. So, Mom went to do just that. But I thought about us—if we were in that predicament further down the line, I couldn’t imagine doing that and being able to let go. I’m selfish, Y/n. I know that, but when it concerns you, I become more than that. Call it possessive, territorial, tunnel-visioned, but I’m not even sure those words really convey just how deep it goes.”
He brings his gaze back down to yours, his golden eyes dark with a vulnerable honesty that often hides behind his mask of control.
“I just couldn’t let you do that,” he admits, his fingers tracing a familiar, rhythmic line along your hip. “So I went to your dad. Thought the local quack could help me out and I told him what was going on in my world, and he said he understood. He said it might just be hormones or it might just be who I am, but only time would give me that answer. But I also wasn't sure how to even go about letting you go about growing without me, when we’re so aligned, so your dad and I created some guidelines. I looked elsewhere, stuck to the rules he and I came up with, and allowed you to grow in whatever capacity you wanted in a romantic sense—without me.”
You stare at him, the weight of his confession finally sinking in. The years of him being your best friend weren't just a waiting game; they were a sacrifice. He’d given you the freedom to choose anyone else, all while making sure no one else could ever measure up to the standard he set.
The silence that follows is heavy. You think back to the years of him picking you up every Friday, the rules he had with your father, and the way he consistently marked your skin to keep other men at a distance. It wasn't just a long game; it was a calculated risk he took to make sure that when you finally chose him, you wouldn't ever feel the need to wonder who you were without him.
You cup his jaw in your hands, your thumbs tracing the sharp, familiar lines of his face. “I—I love you so much,” you whisper, resting your forehead against his. The steady sound of his breathing is only one octave higher than the rapid thud of your heart, but it is grounding in exactly the way you need it to be. The recognition of his devotion, the years of him holding back just to give you the space to find yourself, sends your heart soaring.
He chuckled, the ripple traveling through his chest and into yours. “I love you too, so fucking much, Baby,” he accessorizes his murmur, his voice thick with untethered affection.
He pulls you tighter into his lap, his hands settling firmly on the curve of your ass as he presses you flush against him. Your fingers tentatively trace his bottom lip, your gaze dropping to the mouth that has spent the last couple months claiming every inch of you.
“I want you really badly right now,” you confess, your voice barely a breath against his skin. “But something tells me that as soon as we step inside, that won’t be possible.”
Enjin hums, a dark, amused sound as he nuzzles into the junction of your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin right where his marks sit.
“It won't be,” he agrees, his voice dropping into that low, non-negotiable register. “My mother is already looking for an excuse to keep you in that kitchen, and your dad is probably waiting to corner me about my 'intentions' again.”
He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his golden gaze heavy with the same raw intensity that led to your massage turning into a sex marathon with Wheel of Fortune as the background track.
“So stay right here for a second,” he commands softly, one hand tightening its grip on your ass, the other brushing underneath the wire of your bra. “Because once we walk through that door, I have to share you with the rest of the Childhood Lovers group.”
You giggle, the sound light and airy. “I have this inkling though, that if I stay in your lap any longer you’re gonna cause some trouble.”
He chuckles. “Trouble, hmm? It’s not my fault being in the mere proximity of me turns you feral.”
You give him a playful look, your fingers tightening in his hair. “You’re so full of it. You’ve been ‘conditioning’ me for this since middle school, isn’t that right?”
“And the results are clearly favorable,” he murmurs, his thumb trails the lace of your bra with a slow, agonizing deliberation. He leans in, his lips hovering just a fraction away from yours, claiming your breath before he even claims the kiss. One more minute, Princess. I'm not ready to go back to being the 'prodigal son' just yet.”
The kiss is leisurely and sensual, his mouth moving against yours in a way that speaks of promises for as soon as your parents' bedtime arrives. You tighten your hold around him, your hips moving forward on instinct to feel what being in your presence does to him. Despite the bagginess of his sweatpants, you feel him through the thinness of your pants, pulling a soft moan from you which he swallows.
“Careful, Princess,” he rasps, yet his thumb brushes against your nipple teasingly. “You’re getting yourself worked up, and we both know how you get when you’re overstimulated.”
You breathe out a jagged laugh, your forehead resting against his as you try to regulate your breathing. The scent of bourbon and the cool evening air are the only things keeping you from fully unraveling in his lap.
“You started it,” you whisper, giving a gentle pull to his hair. “Again, the conditioning is clearly working too well.”
Enjin gives a low laugh, a heavy, pulsing sound that travels straight to your core. He claims one final, crushing kiss before lifting you from his lap. “Go. Before your dad decides to come out here and check on us himself,” he commands softly. “I’ll be right behind you. I just need a second.”
You grab your drink from the table, squeaking as he lands a firm smack to your ass as you bend in front of him. “Now who needs to be careful,” you tease, glancing at him over your shoulder.
Enjin doesn't move from his seat, but his eyes track the movement of your hips with a dark, heavy promise. “Still you, Princess. I have no problem with taking your ass to my car, a hotel, or your bedroom. So tread lightly—I’m one suggestive look away from ruining you.”
Your fingers pause on the handle, the sound of your mothers’ laughter floating beyond the glass sliding door. “I hope that’s a promise and guarantee,” you whisper, catching his gaze in the reflection of the door.
“Princess, it’s a vow.”
It sends a shiver down your spine at the weight of his words. You nod, before finally allowing the warmth of the kitchen to take you from the electricity of Enjin.
“Ah! My favorite daughter is back. Where’s the boy?” your mom’s voice raises over the sound of the music and clanking of pans. Kai is standing at the island sink, washing dishes, her gaze just as curious.
“Should be coming in right behind me, or he’s gonna use the side door to head to dad’s lounge,” you explain, taking a long, steady sip of your mojito.
Your mom pauses her intense whisking, her eyes narrowing as she takes in your slightly disheveled state and the way your cheeks are still flushed. “And? Did you two finally finish your ‘debate,’ or do I need to send your father out there to mediate?”
“We’re good, Mama L,” Enjin’s voice cuts through the room before you can respond. He enters from the patio, the cool night air clinging to his shoulders and the scent of bourbon following him like a shadow. He doesn’t look at you, but the way he moves to stand directly beside you, his presence a heavy, destabilizing force, tells you exactly where his mind is: calculating the efficiency necessary to get everything done swiftly so you both can become free of your soon-to-be sous-chef titles.
Kai turns off the faucet, drying her hands as she looks between the two of you with a sharp, maternal focus. “Good. We have lots to do if we want tomorrow to be efficient. Enjin, look at my spreadsheet and go make sure your dad and in-law are on time. Little bit, you'll be helping your mom and me. I want you to chop up the sweet potatoes and then start on snapping the green beans—”
“Kai, taste this? Is it too salty?” your mom interrupts, already popping whatever she’s mixing into Kai’s mouth. Both ladies become distracted with the ratio of the dish, the earlier interrogation momentarily forgotten in favor of culinary perfection.
You turn to look at Enjin, who flips through his mother’s color-coded timetable. “Wow, she’s so thorough. Even has time allotted for ‘our talk’—how’d she even know we’d need one?” you mumble over his forearm.
Enjin doesn't pull his gaze from the papers, but the corner of his mouth quirks into a ghost of a smirk. “You know she works all on probability. This is probably one of three routes she calculated happening.” The rest of his words formulate into static as you press yourself closer to him.
Inhaling deeply, the scent of bourbon and coffee infiltrates your senses. You practically bury yourself into his side, wrapping your arms around him unconsciously, seeking the solid warmth of his chest beneath the hoodie.
“Baby,” he says, low and inquisitive.
It sends a jolt through you—a physical response to the same register he uses when he talks you through it, when he’s edging and overstimulating you until he’s satisfied. He doesn't stop flipping through the spreadsheet, but his free hand leaves the packet to slide to the small of your back, pulling you flush against his hip.
“You’re getting clingy in front of the audience, Princess,” he whispers, his eyes flicking toward the moms to ensure their attention is still fixed on the stove. “If you don’t let go and start on those green beans, Ma is going to realize her probability for ‘our talk’ needs to be moved down by at least an hour.”
A soft whine slips past your lips, snuggling your head even deeper into him. “How can I not be clingy when you smell good, look damn good, sound real good, and treat me as if nothing in this world comes close to what I mean to you?” you whisper, your voice muffled.
He pauses, finally giving you his undivided attention. His world shifts internally at the sight before him. You look as if you are trying to become one with him; your braids hide your face from him, but he knows you are wearing a pout and those beautiful eyes are blown wide with need.
Sparing a glance to your mothers, his mom is watching the scene out of the corner of her eye while talking to your mother about what’s missing.
He shifts so his back is toward them, acting as a wall for where your conversation could potentially pivot. He slips a hand under your chin, tilting your head upward to see the very look that he warned you about on the patio.
He groans quietly. “Princess,” he exhales, his fingers pressing deeper into your hip. “What did we just discuss?”
You don’t respond to his warning, instead trailing your hands up to the strings of his hoodie and tugging. You guide him down until he’s bent over you, his lips ghosting over yours in the narrow space he’s carved out between your bodies and your parents’.
“Just one second,” you whisper, the proximity making your head spin. “I need a kiss and then I will be on my best behavior until nightfall.”
Enjin’s gaze drops to your mouth, his jaw tightening as he weighs the risk of giving in. On one hand, he can give you what you need and send you off, but the way you are pressed against him, smelling like a mix of his cologne and your own unique scent paired with the look in your eyes, is dangerous to his control.
“Best behavior,” he demands, the words sounding more like a command than a question.
You nod, and he finally relents, leaning in to give you exactly what you asked for. It’s not a gentle kiss. It is a profound, weighty pull that reminds you exactly who he is behind closed doors. His tongue slides against yours with a slow, possessive rhythm, tasting of the bourbon he’d been sipping on the patio. His hand shifts from your hip to the nape of your neck to steady you as he drinks you in.
You let out a shaky breath, your fingers tightening on the strings of his hoodie to keep your balance as he claims you. He doesn't just kiss you; he consumes the sound of your soft moans, his teeth catching your bottom lip in a sharp, deliberate bite. The sting is centering, yet earth-shattering all at once. You feel it in the way your clit practically pulses against your underwear.
Tonight. This weekend—with him, will be trouble.
“Ahem.”
He pulls back just a fraction, his lips still grazing yours, wet and swollen. He nips at the sensitive corner of your mouth, his hand moving to the curve of your ass, before sparing a lazy look over his shoulder.
His mother stands by the island with a bag of green beans in one hand and a look of pure, unfiltered amusement on her face.
“I don’t remember ‘making out in the kitchen’ being on the spreadsheet, Enjin,” she notes, tossing the bag onto the table in front of you. “And since you’ll be distracting one another, you can head to the lounge now. We don't need y’all putting us behind schedule,” she instructs. Your mother in the background is half-listening and half-problem-solving another work-in-progress dish.
Enjin straightens up, clearing his throat as he adjusts his hoodie, though he doesn't look even remotely embarrassed. His eyes are low as he looks back down at you, silently checking to see if you are as wrecked as he is before he has to turn around and leave.
Your lips are swollen, but pulled into a shit-eating grin. “Enjoy bonding with the boys, but pray for me while you’re at it. They're going to eat me alive up here,” you jest, unraveling yourself from his embrace.
Enjin lets out a short, dry huff of a laugh. “They might,” he murmurs, his gaze lingering on your mouth for a second too long. “And I have very strong ambitions on following their lead.” With that, he turns on his heels and heads toward the basement.
You flop down at the kitchen table, pulling the bag of green beans toward you. Your fingers feel clumsy, and your pulse is still thrumming from the kiss.
“So,” your mother starts, her voice dropping into that melodic, dangerous lilt she uses when she’s about to dissect a situation. She doesn't look up from the stove, but the way she’s stirring the pot is far too methodical. “That was quite a talk you two had out there. I don’t recall either of you being so hard of hearing that you needed to sit in his lap to hear one another.”
Kai pulls up a chair across from you, grabbing a handful of beans to help. She looks at your swollen lower lip, then back at your eyes, her expression full of mischief. “I expected a lot to happen this weekend, but seeing my son look rattled is new. He usually has a better handle on himself.”
“Aunt Kai, please,” you groan, snapping a bean with a loud crack. “Can we just focus on the food? I thought we were behind schedule.”
The older women cackle in response. “Oh, we are,” your mom says, a small, triumphant smile playing on her lips. “But I’ve been waiting since you were in pigtails to see Enjin finally stop pining and start participating. Or at least do a better screening job of your short-lived relationships.”
“Mamaaaa,” you whine, not wanting to be reminded of your past bad decisions that were poor attempts and imitations of Enjin.
Your mother finally turns, leaning against the counter with a wooden spoon in hand. “What, Sugar? He’s always been territorial over you. Even when he moved away that summer, he was calling your father every Friday like clockwork to remind him he was coming into town and picking you up. We wondered when you’d finally catch on, but you were catching different fish in your net.”
Her statement settles two different realizations within you: Enjin was really trying his best consistently, despite you looking the other way because he felt forbidden. Additionally, it wasn't just him waiting; it was everyone around you watching the clock.
“Well, why didn’t anyone say anything?” you counter, giving both ladies a pointed look.
Kai smiles softly, her hands pausing. “Isn’t that what you two were talking about?”
“I—I, well, yes.” Your gaze softens as you peer into molten pools of gold that remind you so much of Enjin. “He told me why he waited… about you and Uncle Roy. But that was eight years ago. What kind of goofy waits eight years?” you question rhetorically.
“The kind of goofy that knows what he wants,” your mother adds, picking up your empty mojito glass and setting a wine glass in its place.
Kai pours a generous amount of Moscato into your glass and her own. “He’s his father’s son. A bit too intense for most people to handle, and he carries a lot of weight on his shoulders. But for you? He’s always been single-minded. Eight years probably felt like nothing compared to the lifetime he’s already planned out with you.”
The kitchen transition is a blur of laughter, shared secrets, and the rhythmic snapping of green beans. With the wine flowing and the “secret” finally out in the open, the interrogation turns into a marathon of storytelling. Kai and your mother trade turns recounting Enjin’s most desperate moments: the times he nearly blew his cover, the way he’d glare at any boy who dared to stand too close to you at graduation, and the silent agreements made between the families long before you ever said "I love you” beyond the planes of being platonic.
By the time the dishwasher is humming and the counters are wiped clean, it is well past midnight. The house finally settles into a heavy, peaceful quiet. Kai retreats to the downstairs guest suite, while your mother heads to her room at the end of the hall, leaving you to slip away to your childhood bedroom, exhausted but buzzing from the wine and spinning with thoughts of Enjin, who’s still down in the basement with your dad and his. You lock the door.
Eight years of waiting. Eight years of listening to you talk about other people and dating other people. Throughout that time, you did learn a lot: that you like when people stimulate you intellectually, because Enjin does; you need someone who can talk you down from your anxiety spirals, because Enjin can; you need someone who knows what you want and what you need, sometimes before you even do, because Enjin does. He became the standard through those eight years, but he didn’t feel attainable, and maybe that was part of the ploy.
The floorboards in the hallway groan, and your door handle turns with an agonizingly slow speed, bypassing the creak in the door that never got fixed, despite the numerous times your dad has oiled it and Enjin replaced it.
Enjin slips in, the sharp scent of expensive cigars and far too much bourbon trailing him like a physical presence. You watch as he leans against the door, eyes closed as he takes deep breaths.
“You alright, baby?” Your small voice in the dark room snaps his eyes open in surprise.
He lets out a breathy laugh. “I—I should have known your ass wouldn’t be able to sleep without me.” His words are spoken slowly, carefully even, as he tries to focus on at least one of the three versions of you playing in his vision.
He groans, setting his head back against the door. “Our f–fucking dads got me d-drunk as shit.”
Enjin slides down the door frame until his back hits the wood with a dull thud, his long legs stretching out across your rug. The cool moonlight catches the sharp line of his jaw, highlighting the flush that has crept all the way up to his ears.
"Logistics," he mutters, the word coming out thick and tangled. "Tried to keep it together. Talked about... the future. Talked about intentions. Your pops kept pouring the top-shelf stuff like it was water."
You slip out from under your sheets, squatting in between his legs as you take him in. You’ve seen Enjin tipsy, buzzed, but never this far gone, his eyes blinking rapidly to stop the intense turning of his world. It’s refreshing, almost, watching a man so composed lose it all to way too much bourbon.
You stifle a giggle at the notion. “Let me grab you some sweats and water.” His hand catches you before you can move. His grip on your wrist is firm, even in his stupor. He pulls you down until you are straddling his lap on the rug.
He groans into the crook of your neck, his nose tracing your skin as he nuzzles deeper, seeking the scent of your body wash and the lotion he loves on you so much.
“No water,” he mumbles, his voice reverberating against your pulse point in a way that makes your breath hitch. “Don’t... don’t leave. Been sitting in that lounge for six hours acting like I’m not dying to get back to you.”
He exhales a long, shaky breath, the scent of bourbon and expensive cigars clouding the small space between you. His hands trail up your exposed thighs and under your large T-shirt. No panties, no bra. Just his shirt keeping him from seeing you in your rawest form. He presses a kiss right underneath your ear before resting his head on your shoulder.
“Your dad,” he starts, then stops, letting out a dry, drunken huff of a laugh. “He is a fucking tyrant. I told them. Told them I’ve had the ring picked out since I was eighteen. Your dad just laughed... told me to prove I could handle the quality of his cellar first before his daughter… kept pouring the bourbon. I think I’m dyin’, Baby.”
You can't help the quiet laugh that escapes you. "You aren't dying, Enjin," you whisper, pressing a kiss to his temple. "You’re fuckin’ plastered though."
He groans, the sound rumbling through your shoulder as his hands shift under your shirt. His palms are hot, his calloused thumbs tracing the curve of your hips with a leisurely, profound familiarity that says he doesn't need his vision to know exactly where he is and what his touch is doing to you.
"Eighteen," you murmur, the weight of that admission sinking in. While you were worried about freshman midterms and trying to find someone who felt even a fraction as safe as he did, he was already looking at diamonds. "You really are a piece of work."
"I'm a man who knows a good investment when he sees one," he mumbles, his voice thick and honey-slow. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his golden eyes struggling to stay open, hooded and hazy with a mixture of intoxication and pure, unadulterated devotion.
“I want to grab you clothes and put you to bed,” you begin, fingers hooking on the edge of his shirt and pulling it over his head. It is a welcome sight. His tattoos stand as dark lines against his skin, love bites sporadically placed in spaces not touched by ink. “But part of me wants to relish in your lack of control. To see how well you do when I’m the one on top.”
He lets out a low, rough sound that’s half-groan and half-surrender as the shirt is tossed aside. Stripped of the fabric, the heat radiating off his chest is intense, filling the small gap between you. His golden eyes track the movement of your hands with an unfocused hunger, pupils blown wide enough to swallow the iris whole.
"Princess," he breathes. He tries to sit up straighter against the door, but the effort makes the room tilt, and he ends up leaning his weight more heavily against the door. "You're playing... a dangerous game with a man who can't even see straight."
His hands, usually so precise and calculated, lag as they move from your hips to the small of your back, pulling you closer until there isn't a single breath of air between his bare skin and your T-shirt. He nuzzles into your collarbone, his teeth grazing the skin in a messy reminder of the sharp bites he gave you in the kitchen.
"Control," he mutters, his words trailing off into a huff of bourbon-scented breath against your neck. "I've spent ten years... perfecting it. If you want to take it, take it. Use it however you want, princess."
He shifts, his knees falling wider to give you more room in his lap, his head dropping back against the door with a dull thud. He looks up at you, his face flushed and vulnerable, yet there's a flicker of that possessive fire in his gaze.
"Do your worst," he challenges, his voice dropping into a thick, honeyed rasp. "See if I don't still manage to ruin you by morning."
You don't respond with words, only a slow, deliberate shift of your weight that draws a strangled groan from deep in his chest. You reach back, twisting your hair into a messy bun to clear the way, and the sight of your bare neck in the moonlight makes his breath hitch.
He’s a man caught between the spinning room and the singular, magnetic pull of you, and for the first time in eight years, he has no counter-strategy. This is probably one of very few chances he’ll give you the reins without conditions, so there’s no chance in hell you'll turn him down. You lean forward, pressing your chest against his bare, ink-covered torso. “Morning is a long time from now,” you coo, placing light kisses along his neck.
His eyes flutter shut as he tries to anchor himself to the sensation of your lips moving against his skin. Every feather-light kiss is a targeted strike against the last of his composure. He lets out a quiet, guttural growl when your lips find the sensitive dip above his collarbone, his head rolling to the side to give you better access. For a man who usually dictates every second of your interactions, seeing him reduced to these sharp, needy inhales is intoxicating. You place a firm bite right above the sensitive spot, moaning as his hands give your ass a firm squeeze in response.
You catch a glimpse of him through your lashes, taking in the way his bottom lip is tucked between his teeth and his eyebrows furrow in concentration. “Jinny, are you holding back on me?” you tease, slowly pressing your heat into his erection.
He exhales sharply, his hands sliding from your ass to your waist to anchor you firmly in his lap. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Princess,” he exhales, his eyes snapping open to pin you with that familiar, predatory focus. “The moment the world slows the fuck down, I’ll be reclaiming my lead.”
You simply smile adoringly at him, sliding your own T-shirt off in one fluid motion, watching as his eyes widen at the sight of you. Enjin’s eyes track the fabric of your shirt as it falls to the rug, his breath hitching in a sharp, staggered inhale that tells you the threads of his control are more than wearing thin. The moonlight streaming through your window hits the marks he’s left on you, the dark, constant marks of his possession, and for a moment, the room is so quiet you can hear the frantic, uneven thud of his heart.
"God, you're stunning,” he confesses, as he struggles to reconcile the spinning room with the sight of you completely bare in his lap. He trails a finger from your waist to the inner part of your thighs, your hand wraps around his wrist as his finger brushes against your clit. You jolt a bit against him, but the mischievous smirk on your lips doesn’t budge.
“Thank you, but before you can touch Jinny, and before I hand you the reins back— I want six facts from you. One for every hour you suffered while missing me, and I want them to mean something.” You remove his hands from your body, placing them on the side of him.
“Six?" he repeats, the word catching in his throat. He lets out a breathy laugh. "Alright, Professor. Let’s see if I can pass the test."
You maneuver off of his lap, your fingers hooking into the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers. Your heart is racing, a frantic mix of adrenaline and the sharp, focused need that has been building since you stepped into this house. You pull the fabric down, Enjin lifting his hips just enough to grant you the access you've been daydreaming about all afternoon.
A moan bubbles past your lips as you set him free. Precum glistens at the tip, and his piercing catches a stray beam of moonlight, flashing with a cold brilliance against the heat of his skin.
You position yourself on your stomach between his legs, the rug soft against your skin as you settle into a view that is entirely yours. From here, you have a perfect vantage point of his length and the way his face has completely unraveled. Enjin’s head is still resting against the door, his breath coming in slow, shallow hitches. He watches you through crescent lids, his focus hazy but heavy with a primal sort of devotion. He looks like a man who has finally stopped trying to calculate the next move and is simply waiting for you to ruin him.
“Fact one, sweetheart,” you demand, gliding your finger over his cockhead, collecting the precum and using it to slick the thick veins. His abs constrict at the delicate touch.
“Fact one,” he starts, “I–I started saving for our wedding in eighth grade.” A smile plays on your lips in an attempt to hide your surprise. The confession makes you press your legs together. A moan pulls from the back of his throat as he watches you lick him from base to tip.
“Fact two, don’t make me wait.” You maintain eye contact as you shift from delivering light kisses and licks to swallowing him in one go. Enjin’s toes curl, his thighs and abs twitching under your ministrations. Your mouth is a warm, wet envelope that never fails to make him see stars.
“F-fact two… your apartment, it’s ridiculously cheap because of a deal I made with the landlords,” the words are forced through gritted teeth. His breathing is uneven as you ignore your gag reflex and take him to the hilt, repeatedly. Your hand rotates in a rhythmic tandem with your mouth. Cheeks hollowed out and unshed tears blurring your vision, but you stay tunnel-visioned on Enjin, watching the way his eyes never leave you, how his eyebrows furrow in a mix of intense concentration and self-control.
“Fact three,” he exhales roughly, his knuckles turning white as he grips your rug. It’s taking everything in him not to wrap his hands in your hair and push himself deeper down your throat. “The motherfucker you gave your virginity to… I kicked his ass e-every day for a month straight—fuck baby, slow down,” he pleads.
You shake your head, grabbing one of his hands and placing it behind your head. A reward. You slip him out of your mouth for a moment and grin up at him. “Make those last three count before I milk you dry,” you command, your voice hoarse from your performance.
He lets out a moan that makes your cunt clench, his hand pushes your head down with guided care and control despite the overload of alcohol in his system. You choke as his piercing goes further with the assistance of his hand, causing you to moan around his girthy member.
Your free hand cups his balls, using the mix of your saliva and his precum as a perfect form of lube to knead them. The sound of your sucking echoes throughout the room; your hips rock against the floor in need, cunt aching for anything to satiate the emptiness. His moans only serve as further fuel to the fire, encouraging you to up the ante to get him to come undone beneath you.
“Fact four, I-I already have our wedding date picked out,” he chokes out, barely above a whisper as he fights to hold back his impending orgasm. “Fact f-five, I never wanted a future in which w-we weren’t together.”
Tears free-fall down your cheeks and your jaw is stretched beyond comprehension. Tremors run through you as you hear his moans increase in frequency—no longer held back by the biting of his lip as his final threads of restraint break.
“Fact si-six, your dad was right about one thing tonight... I-I’m one lucky sonofabitch—” his orgasm hits mid-sentence, ripping the rest of the words from him.
You take it. All of it. His cum is thick and slightly salty, but with an underlying taste that has you swallowing with hopes of pulling more from him. Your lips remain wrapped around him even after he’s done, sending his contents straight to your stomach. Overstimulation be damned, he lets you; lets you continue to swallow him until you’ve cleaned him off.
His hand is still resting on your head. It only moves when you press a final kiss to his now semi-hard length. Your breathing is just as ragged as his, your heart thrumming and your pussy drenching the space underneath you.
“Come here,” he calls out softly, his eyes practically closed as he tries to reconcile with the world, finally, slowing down from when he first entered the room. You crawl up into his lap and your cunt brushes against him, allowing him to feel the way he affects you even when he isn't actively touching you.
His hands trail up your sides, cupping underneath your breast. “We’ll have a lot to talk about in the morning, handsome,” you gasp. He smiles lazily.
“L-long time from now,” he counters, thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples before claiming one in his mouth. It elicits a shaky moan out of you. Your fingers weave into the threads of his hair, pushing your chest further in his face. He nips and licks like a man on a mission before alternating to the other.
You hum in agreement, your hips rocking against his stomach with his dick pressed against your ass. He bites down sharply before pulling away to glance up at you. His chin rests right in between the valley of your breast. “Bed or floor?” he mumbles softly, a hand trails down over your ass and in between your wet folds. He groans as a finger slips in with no resistance. You’re soaking, drenched even.
You whine at the teasing way he pulls his finger back. He drags the pad of his thumb over your clit, watching the way your lips part to release an unrestrained moan. Your hips buck against his torso.
“Floor, p-please,” you gasp, the last word comes out barely audible as he roughly shoves two fingers inside of you. Your body trembles. Your cunt flutters around him in appreciation at finally having something to fill the void. You roll your hips against him, actively trying to chase the sensations. “O-oh f-fuck Jinny,” you breathe out shakily.
“I hope you enjoyed your power trip. I have all the intention of ruining you thoroughly before the sun rises,” he murmurs.
—-
Cold. Your eyes snap open, eyebrows furrowing in confusion as your fingers grip the empty space beside you. Enjin. You glance at your Barbie clock: 4:09 AM. It’s only been roughly forty-five minutes since you both called it a night.
You climb out of bed carefully, a low groan pulling from your chest, your back and inner thighs both pulsing with soreness and an all too familiar ache. But the concern buzzing in the back of your mind drives you to slip outside of your bedroom. The bathroom is located to the left of your room, the lights on, but the sound of water nonexistent.
You step gingerly over the floorboards, avoiding the creaking ones successfully. The doorknob is cool in your grip, the polarization of temperatures jolts you awake a bit more. When you push the bathroom door open, the sight makes your heart drop.
Enjin’s on the floor, leaning his head back against the wall beside the toilet. His eyes are tightly shut, head tilted back against the wall. His skin is pale and slick with a fine sheen of sweat that leaves his hair sticking to his forehead. One leg is propped up, and his arm is loosely draped over his knee as he struggles to keep what’s left of the contents of his stomach down. He looks completely wrecked, the sheer volume of the bourbon returning in full to collect what’s owed now that the adrenaline has faded.
“Jin,” you whisper, kneeling on the tile beside him. The floor is freezing against your knees, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating off of him.
“Sorry, Princess,” he rasps, his voice broken—a sandpaper ghost of what it was an hour ago. “Really…” he stops, swallows hard, his breath stuttering as his stomach turns again.
“I thought I put your ass to sleep for the night,” he lets out a shaky, rough breath. The dark, fresh marks on his neck and shoulders stand out vividly in the harsh light, a stark reminder of the intensity he’d poured into you before you passed out and his body finally caved.
You reach out, brushing the damp hair from his forehead. He looks so vulnerable. “You did, but you took the heater when you left,” you tease softly.
A phantom of a smile pulls at his lips. “I think the bourbon won, princess,” he mutters, finally opening his eyes to look at you. His eyes are red, but his irises have started to return. You reach over him, turning the shower on. The sound of the spray fills the space; you adjust the temperature to be borderline scalding in hopes of pulling enough steam from the contraption to help him feel better.
“It may have won the battle, but you’ve certainly won the war. Now, stay right here, Jin,” you whisper, placing a light kiss to the tip of his nose.
You move quickly, despite the heaviness in your legs. In your room, you grab a pair of boxers and flannel pajama pants for him, skipping the shirt—he’ll just peel it off in the middle of the night anyway. You tread carefully downstairs, bypassing the guest room where his parents are sleeping, and slip into the laundry room. His clothes and towel go into the dryer. Making a pit stop to the kitchen, you turn the Keurig on for hot water, letting that take its time while you dig for a BC powder in the kitchen medical drawer. Then you’re back upstairs.
Your closet yields a fresh pair of sheets and a comforter tucked neatly on the top shelf. You strip the bed and replace the old linens with the ones that carry the faint scent of your mother’s favorite fabric softener—proof she’d stashed them there recently. A glance at the clock: 4:22. You pick up the pace.
Sheets in hand, you head downstairs again, tossing them into the washer with detergent and softener. Jin’s clothes come out of the dryer, and you’re practically sprinting back upstairs. You open the bathroom door, slipping inside and closing it softly. “You okay, my baby?” you call out over the intense steam circulating around the bathroom, placing his items on the counter beside his toothbrush.
You pull the shower curtain back, revealing Enjin directly underneath the showerhead, eyes closed as he allows the water to wash away the soap suds. “Your baby is fighting for his life, and not to alarm you… but I don't think I’m winning,” his voice is worse than before, more hoarse than audible, as if he’s talking through a Wendy’s drive-thru window speaker.
“Oh honey,” you slip a hand under his chin, turning his head towards you. He hums in acknowledgment, staring down at you through wet lashes. “Come here and let me take care of you,” you instruct, already moving to turn the water off. You pull the curtain all the way back; he places a hand on your shoulder for balance as he climbs over the bathtub.
His eyes are bloodshot, but there is clarity in them now. He groans as he wraps the towel around his waist. “You’re too good to me,” he breathes. You only grin up at him, pressing a gentle kiss to his shoulder as he starts to brush his teeth.
“I just like to match your fly. I have to go grab two things, so by the time you’re done I’ll be back,” you’re already halfway out the door as your words start to register in his mind.
You make one last trip downstairs to acquire his warm water and medicine, double-checking your work to ensure it looks like you weren’t rummaging around after your mom closed up shop to keep it pristine for tomorrow’s guests.
By the time you make it back up the stairs, the bathroom door opens. Enjin steps into the hall with slow steps–half in an attempt to avoid the squeaking parts of the floorboards and half because his legs feel uncertain under his weight.
Your footsteps are right behind him, shutting the door with a quiet, practiced ease. He crawls under the covers with an appreciative groan. “And she changed the sheets… bring your fine ass here,” he demands, a playful edge woven into his words as he pats the open space beside him.
You set the items down on the nightstand beside him, then crawl over his large form to your rightful place. “I brought you warm water and BC powder,” you mutter gently. He hums, adjusting you in his arms to use your chest as a pillow, tucking his head underneath your chin and burying his nose in your neck.
“I-I can't guarantee it'll stay down, so I'll wait a bit,” he mumbles, his lips brushing against your skin with every syllable. “I love you, Princess.”
You trail lazy strokes down his back, smiling to yourself as you pull him close, “I love you, Jin.”
He squeezes you weakly in acknowledgment, your heartbeat finally louder than the blood rushing in his ears, serving as the perfect lullaby.
The room is dim, the heavy curtains blocking out most of the early morning glare, but the house around you is waking up with a vengeance. The floorboards in the hallway groan under heavy footsteps, and the distant clatter of ceramic against granite drifts up from the kitchen.
A sharp, rhythmic knock at the door breaks the silence, your eyes snapping open at the disturbance. 6:15 AM. An hour and some change of sleep. A nap, practically. You’re pinned under the weight of Enjin’s arm and half of his body weight as he substitutes his pillow for you. He doesn’t twitch. His breathing doesn’t change. The alcohol and its repercussions have overpowered his internal clock.
"Y/n? Honey, wake up," your mother’s voice calls out, muffled but bright. "Your brothers have landed. They’re downstairs tearing into the bacon already, and your father is looking for his ‘drinking buddy.' Breakfast is on the table."
You let out a small whine in dissatisfaction. Thanksgiving always starts with a family breakfast. They will just keep knocking until the whole family is at the table—a true tragedy. Because silence and sleep underneath the warmth of Enjin calls to you like a siren sings to a sailor, but much like a random sailor, it’s rather precarious to listen to the sweet lull of sleep.
"Y/n? Enjin?" your mom prompts again, her voice lingering near the wood of the door. "Don't make me send Roy up here to drag the two of you down. He’s also ready for his run with Enjin after breakfast."
“We're coming, Mom!" you call back, your voice sounding a bit raspier than your usual morning voice. Your mother walks away from the door with a small smile and a shake of her head, already foreseeing the conversation that’s sure to take place when your brothers hear you.
Enjin doesn't even open his eyes when your mother’s footsteps retreat down the hall. He just shifts, his large frame rolling slightly off of you as he feels you wiggle. “Bathroom?” he mumbles quietly.
You brush stray hairs from his forehead and press a kiss against his temple. “Breakfast, the boys have arrived. Dad’s looking for you, and your dad is ready to go on your annual run afterwards,” you inform, careful of the volume of your voice as you see him visibly wince the more he moves.
"Fifteen minutes," he rasps, his voice a gravelly vibration that sounds more like a prayer than a promise. "Just... fifteen. I’ll meet you down there."
He doesn't let go of you immediately. Instead, he leans forward, burying his face against your side for a fleeting second to press a faint, lingering kiss to your skin through the fabric of your shirt. It’s a soft, sleepy gesture, before he exhales a long, shuddering breath and sinks straight back into the mattress. Within seconds, his breathing evens out into the deep, rhythmic thrum of someone who is well and truly dead to the world.
Stepping out of the room and closing the door softly behind you, you feel the shift in atmosphere the second your foot hits the top stair. The quiet sanctuary of your bedroom is replaced by the clatter of silverware, the smell of bacon, and the unmistakable roar of your brothers’ laughter.
"Look who finally decided to join the living," your oldest brother, Ace, calls out, leaning back in his chair with a smirk that says he’s been rehearsing his opening statement for an hour. He looks past you toward the empty hallway. "Where is your shadow? Dad said he outdrank Jin last night, but I didn’t think it was bad enough to fuck up his routine,” he follows up, as you settle in your chair.
You watch as your mother places a plate full of your favorites in front of you and Kai pours you a glass of orange juice. Both ladies move in tandem like well-oiled machines before heading back into the kitchen.
You take a slow, cautious sip of your orange juice, your usual brain processing speed at an all-time low as you reconcile with the fact that you’re awake: covered in love bites, bruises, and a soreness in your walk that is unmistakable for either riding a bike for too long or being split open by a dick of monstrous proportions–no in-between, and they know damn well you don’t bike ride. In addition to sitting across from them without the cause of these predicaments. “He’ll be down in fifteen,” the words are choppy even to your own ears, every other syllable airy and without diction. Maybe deepthroating him twice in one night was a bit too much.
"Fifteen minutes, huh?" Cas, the second eldest, repeats, his voice a smooth, mocking drawl as he reaches for another piece of bacon. He pointedly tracks the way you’re holding that glass of juice like a lifeline, his eyes lingering on the faint, dark shadow peeking out from the collar of your shirt before moving back to your face. "That’s optimistic. I’ve seen him after a heavy night with the boys, but he’s usually at least upright. Meanwhile, you look like you’ve been through a whirlwind, Sis. You were drinking too?"
Drinking? In a way, perhaps. You did drink Enjin for all that he was worth, and maybe by proxy got drunk through his content. Who’s to say and who’s to really know. It feels like you are drunk from the way he left you a mess of limbs, tears, and incoherency, especially when he took his control back. And God, did he take his control back. He fucks you like he hates you and touches you like he loves you. The dull, satisfied ache settling into your hips and thighs serves as a blessing and a curse as you sit in the wooden chair.
“Y/n?" Cas prods, snapping his fingers in front of your face. "Earth to Y/n. You look as if you’re remembering a war flashback. Did Jin survive the night, or do we need to go check for a pulse?"
"He's fine," you manage, your voice coming out hoarsely. You clear your throat, trying to find your baseline. "He just... needed a second. He was pretty far gone when he finally made it upstairs."
Rudo hums, a wicked glint in his eyes as he thinks about what that means in the world of his brother. “A second, huh? I’ve never known my favorite wayward brother to need such a thing. Which,” he pauses to wipe his mouth, “now that I’m thinking about him, when I got in this morning, I could have sworn I heard some moving around last night while I slept on the couch. How late were y’all up?”
You shift uncomfortably under the weight of their gazes, and the boys catch the way your face scrunches up in response to the movement. You hadn’t seen anyone on the couch this morning, nor did you look, so his statement hits like a bucket of cold water. While your room is some distance from your parents, the stairs are right there, and therefore, so is the entrance to the living room. He could have heard many things this morning depending on the time. Anytime before 2:00 AM, you and Enjin were learning why the girl from TikTok was right about floor sex. Between 2:30 and 3:00, you were in the bathroom doing anything but getting clean for the first thirty minutes.
“I-I don’t recall. Probably was during a bathroom run…” you mumble absentmindedly, your brain split between reminiscing and trying to cover your asses.
Ace raises an eyebrow. Your father chuckles. Cas snorts and Rudo simply smirks. “Bathroom run… right?” he muses, settling back into his chair.
“You know,” Cas starts, leaning forward and setting his elbows on the table. “Sis, you’re usually a better liar than this. So, what’s really going on, huh? And don’t tell me you just stayed up late talking.”
"We were talking," you insist, though the rasp in your voice betrays you the moment the words leave your throat.
Ace lets out a sharp, incredulous bark of a laugh. "Talking? Sis, you sound like you spent the night cheering at a football game. What were you talking about that required that much vocal projection?"
A response is lost upon you at the call-out. All of the components in your brain in charge of decision-making crash like a bat out of hell. The sound of footsteps saves you, but only momentarily.
Enjin doesn't walk into the kitchen so much as he drifts—a tall, blonde ghost in a pair of running shorts and a dri-fit T-shirt, matching the attire of the other gentlemen at the table. He’s the picture of a man who’s been fighting for his life for the past several hours and has been scarcely winning.
He navigates the space with a sluggish, agonizing caution, his hand sliding along the wall for balance until he reaches the back of your chair. He doesn't say a word; he just sinks into the seat beside you, his large frame slumping forward until his forehead comes to rest against the cool wood of the table.
“There goes the prodigal son,” Rudo calls out excitedly. “Fifteen minutes on the dot, huh? Truly impressive, and dressed for a run?”
Roy grins, looking at his son with a mixture of amusement and pride. He saw how he left the basement last night: face flushed, coordination off-center, but full of conviction as he explained to his best friend’s dad why he’s the perfect man for her and what his intentions are now that he has her. Which makes him sitting at the table, or just vertical in general, that much more impressive.
Enjin lets out a quiet, vibration-heavy groan into the tabletop. He doesn't lift his head. He just raises one hand, blindly reaching out across the space until his fingers find your forearm. He anchors himself to you, his grip desperate and heavy.
"Water," he pleads, the word barely a ghost of a sound. "Need... water. Brain is... vibrating."
Your dad lets out a hearty laugh alongside Roy. “I told you, kid, you’d regret it in the morning, but you’ll be grateful for the rest of your life–and maybe sober too?” he bellows.
You wince at the volume of his voice, but you refrain from commenting, fixing Enjin a glass of water and pressing it into his hand. “Drink, Jinny, you’ll feel better after water, toast, and did you take the BC powder?” you mutter softly.
He just shifts his head slightly on the wood of the table, opening one eye to catch a glimpse of you. Your look of concern, the flushness coating your cheeks, and the disheveled appearance let him know you simply rolled out of bed and sat down. Your hair covers some of the marks he doesn’t remember making, particularly the glaringly large one right at the base of your throat. Pretty, even in a state of being undone.
“I did, thank you, baby,” his lips turn into a warm grin that makes your heart skip a beat. You smile back, nodding and pressing the cool glass to him more firmly.
"Baby?" Cas whispers, the mockery in his voice replaced by a sudden, sharp clarity. He looks at your father, who is currently busy taking a very long, very calm sip of his coffee. "Did he just... since when is she 'Baby,' Jin?"
You freeze, and so does the rest of the room aside from your parents.
Enjin finally sits upright. It’s slow, a grinding effort of will, but he does it. He takes the glass into his hands and downs it like it’s his only lifeline. His brain feels as if it’s vibrating and his body is still coming to terms with the remnants of your dad’s wine cellar.
Cas’s question still hangs in the air, thick and demanding, but Enjin doesn't look at him. He sets the glass down on the granite with a deliberate, controlled thud, before sinking in his chair and resting his head on your shoulder. His eyes flutter, trying to find peace among the glare of the early morning sun shining into the open patio window and with his decision of drinking so much liquor that he’s woken up intoxicated still.
“Been a minute,” he exhales, finally settling on simply closing his eyes for the time being. No need to look at anyone that isn’t you at this moment anyways. Your brothers turn their attention to you. Still frozen. Eyes wide. Mouth open. Like a deer caught in the headlights.
“Y/n? He’s not gonna answer us, so you have to. What the hell does ‘been a minute’ fuckin’ mean?” Ace questions, his voice flat. You inhale shakily, turning your attention to Enjin who’s still fighting a battle he doesn’t seem to be winning anytime soon.
“I–” the words die in your throat as he shifts on your shoulder. He wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you until you’re halfway in your chair and halfway in his lap. You adjust accordingly, settling entirely into where he wants you.
“Give me… five… five minutes of fucking silence,” he commands, before nuzzling his head in your neck much to the jargon of everyone else.
The silence he demanded is absolute, but it’s the heavy, suffocating kind that feels like the preamble to a storm. Your brothers are staring at the two of you, at the way Enjin has essentially dragged you into his orbit without even opening his eyes, and the way you’ve just... settled there. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to be a human pillow for a man who looks like he’s been through a physical and emotional blender.
"Five minutes?" Ace whispers, the word coming out sharp and jagged. "Y/n, you’re halfway in his lap. At the breakfast table. In front of Dad, and I just know Mom can see this from her position in the kitchen. And you’re just... letting him?"
"That wasn't a 'bathroom run' on the floorboards, was it?" Rudo asks, his voice dropping the playful edge. He looks at your father, who is still calmly nursing his coffee, looking entirely too unbothered.
Your father glances up, tapping his finger on the rim of his mug. A look of pure amusement dances across his features. "He said he needed five minutes of silence, Boys. I’d suggest you give it to him. He’s had a long night of proving he’s man enough to handle this family beyond a platonic sense. If he wants to hold his girl while he recovers, that’s his business."
The word "his girl" hits the table like a lead weight. You have always been Enjin’s girl—his best friend, his shadow, his partner-in-crime. But you had never been whatever the hell this is playing out in front of them.
“Boys, quiet down," Kai’s voice cuts through the room, quiet but final as she steps back out of the kitchen with a fresh carafe of juice. She doesn't look surprised. She looks at you with a soft, knowing tilt of her head before glancing at Enjin. "The boy is exhausted. Let them be."
Rudo chuckles at his mother’s words. “Ma, dude is tired because after drinking with our dads he went and did a Tour de France with Y/n! And we know dang well the princess isn’t riding no bike.”
His words practically send your soul into the afterlife.
You stay pinned to the spot, eyes fixed on a single stray crumb on the tablecloth, feeling the heat of the room rise until your skin feels like it’s glowing. You’re certain your heart is visible through your shirt, thudding against Enjin’s chest as he holds you.
Roy lets out a sharp, sudden bark of a laugh that he tries to cover with a cough, but your father doesn't even bother. He just leans back, looking at Rudo with a look of pure, unadulterated mischief.
"Technically," your dad muses, his voice booming in the quiet kitchen, "I believe the race was a sprint, not a marathon, if the timing of the floorboards was any indication."
"Dad!" you gasp, the sound coming out as a tiny, horrified wheeze. It was only after your first orgasm on the floor did you realize the bed would hide the sounds of your sexcapade a lot better.
Enjin doesn't move his head from your neck, but you feel his lips curve into a slow, wicked grin against your skin. The vibration of his silent chuckle travels through your collarbone. He isn't embarrassed. He isn't even trying to hide it. He just tightens his arm around your waist, pulling you so flush against him that there isn’t a breath of air left between your bodies.
"Rudo," Enjin starts, the name coming out like a warning. "If you don't shut the hell up… I’m gonna show you how I won the race.”
“Race? So you're admitting it?" Cas barks, pointing a fork at the two of you. "Dad, he basically just confirmed the Tour de France! They were upstairs knocking boots. Under your roof! While you were sleeping! While I was slee–”
It’s quick. You’re not sure how he does it. Barely even feel him, but you watch the piece of jelly-covered toast stick to Cas’s face.
And Cas just sits there. Frozen. The crust of the toast still clings to his cheek while a slow, sticky glob of grape jelly slides toward his jawline.
Enjin doesn't even lift his head from your shoulder. His hand is already back on your waist, his fingers digging into your hip as if he never moved at all. The speed of the throw was surgical—the kind of accuracy that comes from a man who spent his childhood throwing fastballs and his adulthood calculating strikes.
"I said," Enjin rasps, his voice dropping into a dark, velvet register that rings through your entire body, "five minutes of silence."
The table is a crime scene. Rudo is shaking, his shoulders trembling as he tries to swallow a laugh that would probably get him a plate of eggs to the forehead. Ace is looking between the jelly on Cas’s face and the "prodigal son" currently using his sister as a bolster, his eyes wide with a new, horrified respect.
Enjin has always been a rather loose cannon in the family, one that the boys could never truly predict. While he’s the third in line as the oldest when combining your two families, he was always treated as the eldest. Elaborate tattoos before graduation? Of course. Smoking by the age of sixteen? Naturally. Having a job before even starting high school? Duh. He just always seems to have a mind that is several steps above anyone else they would ever know.
Which leads to several epiphanies between the men at the table: this was never a matter of how, but when? Their parents all knew. And, somehow, in the twenty years they have known both Enjin and you, they missed this coming entirely–and yet the pairing makes perfect sense.
Five minutes are up.
Enjin releases a slow, cool stream of air through his mouth before sitting up. His gaze is clearer and his expression is softer. One arm remains heavy on your waist, and the other moves to refill his water glass. “Thank you,” he mutters, before pressing the cup to his lips and knocking it back. His body is still thrumming with the echoes of bourbon, but his mind is a smidge quieter-–and that’s what matters the most at the moment.
“How long have you been crackin’ my sister?” Cas shoots out.
He winces at Cas’s volume, “couple months and no need to fucking yell.”
Cas rolls his eyes, aggressively stabbing his pancake as he lets the timeline settle. Ace and Rudo’s eyes widen in surprise. “No way, that means when we came down for Halloween, y’all were together? Why the heck didn’t you say something?” Rudo questions, mouth open in shock. “Princess, Y/n, I thought we were closer than this?”
You roll your eyes at his dramatics, “It wasn’t time yet… besides, neither you nor Ace can hold water. Mom, dad, Aunt Kai, Uncle Roy, the elderly ladies at church, the mailman, and everyone else and their damn mama would have known before we were ready to share.”
He huffs at your statement, but he doesn’t rebut.
“And when did mom and dad find out? And you know what, why are we all acting like it’s okay for them to be fucking while we’re sleeping?” Ace follows up, both hands resting on top of his low-cut fade as he whips his head from your dad to Uncle Roy.
Roy looks at your dad and then back to Enjin who’s oscillating between burying himself in your skin and remembering that he needs to hydrate to flush his system. “Well,” Roy starts, setting his cup of coffee down. “The agreement was that if Enjin could walk out of the room by the time the bottles were done, without waking up your mother and his, then all future actions over the next 24 hours would be voided. And guess who successfully made it up those stairs without waking anyone?”
You glance up at Enjin as he finishes another glass of water. What the hell happened in that room last night? His relaxed nature makes your eyebrow twitch. How is he so calm with all of this? He only smiles as he watches the questions begin to dance across your features. You’re cute when you’re curious.
“The perks of being the prodigal son,” Rudo grumbles, but there’s no bite in his words. If anything, he’s always been ecstatic that Enjin was the one born to carry the weight of their parents' expectations. Because Enjin is such a go-getter, over-achiever, weirdly complex individual, his parents have allowed him to be the free-spirit teenage sloth he’s always desired to be—and it’s been wonderful. “Well, I’m happy for you both. It’s about time Y/n stops bringing bum-ass, sorry-ass, weird-ass partners back to the house.” His statement elicits hearty laughs from all the men and even a quiet chuckle from Enjin.
You narrow your eyes at Rudo, “Brave comment coming from the boy who has only been dating girls that look like Riyo,” you point out. The retort earns a choked laugh from Cas, a snort from Ace, and a light pinch from Enjin that makes you yelp.
“Play nice,” he reminds softly.
You huff, giving Rudo a pointed look, “him first.”
Rudo raises his arms in mock-surrender as Enjin’s sharp gaze turns to him and back to you. No further warning necessary, he backs down.
“I guess it makes sense, I mean if anyone can handle the princess it’s Enjin. You know, as I’m sitting here mind-blown, trying to wrap my head around all of this, it really is starting to connect,” Ace muses. “He can afford her lifestyle, he practically is solo-funding it if you ask me—like, when was the last time Y/n has asked me for money—”
“I’ve never asked you for money,” you cut off, giving him a side-eye while munching on a piece of bacon.
“Exactly,” he continues. “Because Enjin is like your walking wallet. I just thought it was him performing his brotherly duties, but now I’m not so sure. I mean, he even has that deal going with your landlord—”
“Wait a second! Does everyone but me know about your deal with the landlord?” you interrupt once again, eyes the size of saucers as you wiggle Enjin’s head off your shoulder to look at him properly.
Cas snickers, “Don’t tell me you thought you were living in a high-rise at that ridiculously stupid price by sheer luck?... Oh my goodness, you did. Dad, are you sure this is your gifted child?”
Your dad simply shakes his head, “She is… she really is. But to be fair, it’s not like Enjin went out of his way to tell her.”
“I didn’t think it was important. It’s not like it changed anything, and I got a good contract out of it,” he murmurs. He presses a kiss to your temple. “You wanted to be independent and I wanted you to have what you wanted, so I made it happen. Don’t think too hard about it, Baby.”
You open your mouth to respond, but Roy cuts in. “Alright, boys. I’ve given Enjin enough time to shake back, it’s family run time. If we lag around any longer it’s going to mess up the schedule Kai made, and I don’t think any of us want that to happen on such a joyous holiday.” His words get the rest of the boys on alert as they check their watches—half past seven.
Enjin places you carefully back in your chair, “We can talk about everything else swirling in that head of yours when I get back, alright?” He ruffles your hair as you nod in agreement.
And oh, how y’all will talk.
The energy leaves with them, leaving you in the quiet sanctuary of the early morning light and the rhythmic sounds of your mothers navigating throughout the kitchen.
“You alright in there, sweetheart?” your mom calls out, peeking her head in the pass-through-window that overlooks the dining area. You lean your head back on the chair. Loaded question.
“Y-yeah, just settling into this new reality. You know?”
She hums in understanding, going around the wall to stand behind your chair. She wraps her arms around you. “You’ll adjust. Telling the family makes it more real, doesn’t it?” You nod in agreement, and she continues. “It’s probably the reason why you didn’t tell your brothers and why Enjin didn’t tell Rudo. It’s better to adjust within the realms of one another without the influence and voices of others. But, with that being said, you’re in the presence of family that doesn’t change even with your relationship title changing. You’re still our princess, our genius, and our little smartass.”
“Wow, really missed you and all your wisdom, Ma,” you whisper, nuzzling your cheek against her arm. “It’s weird… realizing you guys were all in on it and realizing the boys had no idea, but did in a weird way? And, gosh, don’t let me forget to add that he’s been pining for years. Years. How do I reconcile with that? I was just a dummy for—”
“Ah, ah, none of that language, young lady,” she chastises. “You were growing up and finding yourself, just like he wanted. And his behavior was so second nature to you that it was your version of normal, and it’s not like you had anyone to really compare his behavior to. I didn’t birth you any sisters, just two knucklehead brothers who are a different caliber of individuals when compared to Enjin’s uniqueness, so it’s not even a fair comparison…” She trails off, suddenly unsure of where she was going with this.
“I think what I’m trying to say is that you got the guy, and not just any guy, but the one who knows you better than the back of his hand. The one who has proven time and time again that he’s willing to move mountains and the heavens themselves to make sure you’re okay, and I think that’s what counts the most,” she concludes, smoothing the top of your braids before placing a kiss to your forehead.
You nod, grinning up at her. “Yeah, I’m just thinking too much since I didn’t sleep well. But that’s okay! Let’s turn on some Mary J. Blige and really get the day going before everybody rolls up on us.” The uncertainty is gone from your voice, replaced with excitement as you stand up from your chair, hands moving to begin cleaning up the mess the boys left upon their departure.
“That’s what I’m talking about, lil' bit,” Kai exclaims, stepping out from the kitchen with flour in her wild-colored hair and a ‘kiss the chef’ apron tied tightly around her waist. “Hey Alexa, play ‘Just Fine’ by Mary J. Blige,” she demands. She takes the dirty dishes from your hand and hands you Tupperware to slip the remnants of breakfast into.
The kitchen and dining room transform into a high-energy cacophony of sounds as you all sing your hearts out to the Queen of Hip-Hop Soul. Soon the space has been shaped into a proper dining table with your mom’s favorite tablecloths and hosting dishware laid out; an extra table has been extended to the end to fit roughly twenty people instead of your usual nine. You move from setting up to dessert duty.
You reference your grandmother’s messy calligraphy as you alternate between whipping up a batch of banana pudding and peach cobbler. “Mommy, Grandma isn’t coming this year, right?” you question, eyes lingering on the cobbler’s call for two tablespoons of salt, which feels like a tablespoon too much.
“She’s going to your uncle's this year since your aunt is coming here. Said something about wanting to make sure he and his wife aren't feeding them babies raw carrots and organic fruit snacks as a Thanksgiving meal supplement,” she explains. You snicker under your breath, foregoing the amount of salt for just a simple pinch.
Kai giggles, “They do have a rather rustic food palette… remember Christmas three years ago? They brought that kale and vinegar ‘entree’ with sunflower seeds. I felt like I was an imprisoned bunny rabbit.” She shivers at the memory of the bitter dish.
“God, that was a nightmare, but so was the wedding!” your mom adds. You bask in her storytelling, soaking in the wild stories they share about the crazy members that compromise both of their families.
Time flies. By the time the boys return from their run, the banana pudding is setting in the fridge and the cobbler is on a cooling tray. They enter through the back door, all sweaty, winded, and loud.
“I thought he was going to fucking die out there,” Cas cackles.
“I just can’t believe he threw up in Ms. Susan’s rose gardens,” Rudo states.
Your ears perk at the mention of throw-up. Wiping your hands on the Barbie-pink apron your mom tied around you, you glance at them through the window, eyebrows furrowed as you don’t see Enjin. “Where’s—”
“Pretty boy most likely went through the front door. He’s probably already in the shower. I don’t know how he ran those five miles drunk, but despite throwing up twice, he beat us here,” Ace calls out over his glass of water.
You turn on your heels, practically jogging as you race up the stairs. The bathroom door is open, but steam still clings to the air. You open your bedroom door, exhaling at the sight of him. A pair of tailored black trousers rest on his hips, right underneath his Calvin band. His back muscles constrict as he slips into an olive green, short-sleeve button-up.
“The boys said you threw up. You alright, handsome?” You close the door behind you, grinning as you see your clothes for the day laid out on the made-up bed.
He chuckles, “Fucking snitches. I’m alright, Princess.” He turns around, giving you the perfect view of his sculpted chest. You close the distance between the two of you, your hands finding purchase on his pecs, gently pushing him backward until the back of his knees hit your bed. He watches with merriment, not resisting as you force him to lay down.
You climb on top, keeping your hands stationed right on the firm planes of his chest. “Why’d you sneak in like a thief instead of telling us you were back?” you question, staring him down.
Enjin simply smirks, “I needed that shower like you need me to go to sleep. Besides, when I peeked into the kitchen y’all were wrapped up in your gossip. Didn’t want to interrupt your flow state.”
You give a playful bounce at his statement, “Not a good enough excuse. I could have gotten you some water. You didn’t even eat breakfast, so I could have warmed your plate up—” Your words die in your throat as his smirk turns into one of his charming smiles—the ones he reserves for when he wants something and knows that you’ll give it to him, no matter the ask.
He trails a hand under your shirt and to the middle of your back. He presses down gingerly, guiding you to lay down right on his heartbeat. He takes one deep inhale and a quiet groan slips past his lips. “I’m alright, promise. I just need to lay with you like this for a while, please?”
You brush your lips over his heartbeat before really settling against him. One of your hands tangles in the damp threads of his hair and the other sneaks under his back. “You’re lucky you’re attractive,” you grumble.
“You’ve just dated uglier,” his comment makes you tug on his hair half-heartedly.
You huff dryly, “We’re not even going down your rather robust previous sexual conquests, you little shit. Now close those pretty eyes and that mouth of yours before I start biting.”
He lets out a small laugh, wrapping himself tighter around you.
I would say Fin but there's technically a part two and three to this...I'm trying lmaooo.
I was so engrossed with this dynamic that I iust kept adding so it lead to a delay in sharing with those that asked and my bad about that team.
Mack💕
@jinjen @chestnutcobra49
MDNI 18+ 20k words
P R E C I S I O N
Zuko x Baddie!Reader
Synopsis: The only eight-counts you're confident in performing are in the bedroom, but you'll work hard on the dance floor too with your man backing you up.
Tags: fingering, dirty talk, oral ( f & m receiving) bigdick Zuko, mostly plot/ smut, manhandling, fluff, swearing, modern au, fem!reader , pet names, soft dom!Zuko.
Soo not proofread
Hot and sweaty. Your sports bra is drenched, your mini-shorts have reached an uncomfortable level of tight and annoying, and your knees are starting to throb as you force yourself off the laminated flooring. You hold in every complaint, chanting to yourself that this is all for Suki.
“Ladies, look at my form. You see how my hips are just barely lifting me off the ground? My hips are making a small tent, if you will, as I raise them and round them. My ankles are crossed and my toes are pointed. I don’t want to see anyone's ass just tooted in the air, because that’s not the sensual picture we’re creating here,” Suki instructs while demonstrating. “Then I want you to push off with your left hand. Keep everything nice and tight as you roll—right leg goes up, right hand goes out. We’re doing the crybaby; I don’t think I can explain that any simpler.”
You nod, and so do the fellow dancers beside you. All agreement, no back talk. Everyone is acutely aware that the Captain of the Kyoshi Warriors dance team is not in competition mode, but something deadlier. Something far more serious and detrimental to a woman’s psyche: wedding mode.
It’s why no one has mentioned that it’s hotter than the crack of Satan’s ass, or how a miniature heatwave seems to be forming in the middle of the room. It’s gotten so hot that any clothing not crucial for basic modesty has been stripped away, and all heels have been abandoned.
You yourself have downed four bottles of water in hopes of cooling off, but five hours of continuous dance rehearsal now has you seeing double. Your throat is dry, your body is sticky, and you’re certain if you stepped outside of this building, steam would rise from your skin due to the atmospheric difference.
The ladies around you are faring no better. Movements and momentum are slowing down. No one is speaking unless spoken to; for once, silence has fallen over a usually rambunctious group of women.
“Alright, let’s start from the top. I want precision, girls. We’re aiming for sensual, teasing, and tasteful—loose limbs and lagging are not a part of those components,” Suki states, her voice oozing authority, leaving absolutely no room for objections.
As she goes to start the song from the beginning, the door swings open, breaking the stifling silence. Tall and regal, Kyoshi herself stands in the doorway.
“Afternoon, ladies. I’m locking up the building and kicking everyone out. Amilia had a girl in the room over pass out from the temperature. I have someone coming in on Monday, but the studio will be closed for the weekend. Can’t have y’all dropping like flies—which,” her words pause, her sharp gaze taking in the sight of each melted dancer in front of her, “now Suki, you look like you’re killing them. You all look one move away from dropping. Out!”
The lack of hesitation in everyone’s movements leaves Suki’s mouth agape. You grab your gym bag, phone, and heels. You slip into a pair of slippers, letting out a soft moan as the memory foam cushions your tired feet.
“I–I. My back up studio is booked for the next three weeks and we cannot afford to not practice as a team. We’re down to the wire—”
Kyoshi simply lifts her hand, instantly quieting Suki’s ramble. "I hear you, but it’s a safety hazard at this rate. The building is reading at 97 degrees. I can only imagine how it feels to you all after dancing straight for five hours." She pauses, her gaze softening as she peers at Suki. "As captain, safety comes first, no exceptions, no backtalk, no shortcuts."
Suki nods, slowly glancing around the room to see the state she’s put y’all in. You offer a smile that’s just as shaky as your entire body feels.
Your phone buzzes in your hand with a simple ‘be right there’ text from Zuko. The two of you had planned to get lunch together, but with rehearsal going three hours over, you had to reroute your original plans to dinner.
“Get home safe ladies,” Suki states, her tone finally reflecting her own exhaustion as the adrenaline deflates her nervous system back to baseline. “I’ll send a back-up plan when I figure one out, but rest well!”
Goodbyes are exchanged in a hurry, but you lag behind. Patiently waiting for Suki to finish packing up so the both of you can walk out together.
Your eyes widen as you see tears swell along her waterline when she turns to you, her belongings securely in her bag. "Oh snookeums, what’s wrong?"
She inhales deeply, roughly wiping her eyes with the back of her hands. "I—I, w–we need to practice. We’re nowhere near where we need to be to say we’re exactly 60 days away," she breathes roughly. "A-and I just want us to be perfect for my special day, and—" she hiccups, "—I know we can be. But we can’t if we’re not practicing as a team because I won’t be able to spot—" another hiccup shakes her shoulders, "—our weak points."
She’s bawling now. Breathless and sobbing as she rambles about how important this is to her, and you let her cry. You wrap your arms around her and allow her to sob into your shoulder.
You knew she was overly stressed. You sensed it when she started second-guessing the routine she created, the color schemes she chose, the dresses she picked out—when she, a normally confident, unshakeable woman, began to question her own capabilities. You realized then that she was too far gone, with anxiety completely driving the car.
“It’s alright, we will figure this out," you state quietly, running your hand down her back despite the slickness of her sweat. Body fluids be damned when your girl is in a crisis. "Keyword: we. We’ll go home. Eat something good. Maybe have a sip of wine, maybe the whole bottle—you’ve earned it—and we’ll call some studios. No matter the price, I’ll cover it, and we’ll use it for however long we need until things are fixed here," you add, stepping back to peer into her lovely eyes.
Suki violently shakes her head, her hands flying up in protest. “No, absolutely not. Y/n, I can’t let you do that. A private rental for three days? That’s way too expensive to solo handle, I can’t ask for that from you.”
You just shake your own head right back at her, matching her stubborn energy beat for beat as you pull your gym bag over your shoulder. “Good thing you didn't ask, then. Consider it an early wedding present. Just add it to the tally of gifts I’ve already prepared for you.”
Suki lets out a watery laugh, rolling her eyes dramatically despite the lingering tear tracks on her cheeks. “You are entirely too much, you know that?”
You let out a loud cackle, the sound echoing in the now-empty studio. “Isn't that exactly why you love me? Now please, let’s leave Satan’s ass crack. I am quite literally fucking burning up in here.”
The moment the two of you push through the heavy glass exit doors, the atmospheric shift hits you like a blessing. The outside air is beautifully, blessedly cooler, immediately soothing your flushed skin.
Idling right by the curb is a familiar, sleek red BMW. The driver's side door swings open, and Zuko steps out into the crisp air. The moment his dark eyes lock onto you walking out of the building, his expression softens from his usual serious baseline into something warm.
You raise a tired arm, waving a quick goodbye over to Suki. “See you later!”
Suki waves back, her stride already looking a little lighter than it did inside. As she heads down the sidewalk toward her own vehicle—which happens to be parallel parked just two spaces ahead of where Zuko is waiting—she gives him a bright, exhausted smile. “Hey, Zuko!”
“Hey, Suki,” Zuko calls back politely, before turning his full attention back to you as you cross the pavement toward him.
“I’m beyond sweaty, my feet hurt, my legs are shaki—actually, everything is shaking. My deodorant is holding on by a thread and my clothes are soaked through,” you inform him, taking a deliberate step backward to keep a safe, polite distance.
He chuckles, completely ignoring your attempt at spacing and closing the distance between you instead. He easily slides the heavy gym bag off your shoulder and wraps a firm arm around your waist.
“Hello to you as well, beautiful,” he murmurs. He presses a light kiss to your lips, effortlessly pulling you closer until you’re flush against him.
You loop your arms around his neck, leaning into his hold and deepening the kiss for a lingering moment. You practically melt right into his chest as his grip tightens around you, acting as a pillar for your trembling muscles.
“I missed you,” Zuko murmurs, pulling back just enough to look down at you. His gaze wanders over your flushed face, his thumb gently wiping away a stray bead of sweat near your hairline. “This week has been brutal. I feel like I’ve barely seen you.”
It was true—with his schedule completely packed, you’d only managed to steal a single evening together over the last seven days. Not even a sleepover was done because he was traveling in the middle of the week and you had rehearsals all day last weekend.
“But the weekend is ours,” he promises, his voice dropping into that quiet, steady tone that always manages to soothe your frayed nerves. “No distractions. Just us.”
He presses one last, lingering kiss to your lips. Instead of pulling away entirely, you let your head drop forward, resting your forehead right against his chest. The solid rhythm of his heartbeat and the crisp, clean scent of his cologne are a heavy contrast to the chaotic, sweltering studio you just escaped.
“I missed you too,” you mumble against his shirt, a tired laugh bubbling up from your chest. “Honestly, every single eight-count today was just a countdown to this exact moment.”
Zuko smiles, the vibration radiating through his chest. He gives your waist a gentle, affectionate squeeze before finally guiding you toward the passenger side. He opens the door for you, patiently waiting as you sink into the cool leather seats, and carefully helps you buckle in—knowing your trembling hands would probably struggle with the click.
Once you’re safely tucked inside, he places your gym bag onto the backseat, closes the door, and jogs around to the driver's side, ready to finally get you to himself.
Zuko steers the BMW smoothly into the afternoon traffic, a sympathetic wince crossing his face as he listens to the breakdown of your day.
“I’m pretty sure I saw Ming actually cry at one point,” you tell him, leaning your head back against the cool leather headrest. “Like, from the sheer brutality of it all. At the end of the day, I like dancing, but I’m not a professional dancer. Being surrounded by all these world-class, elite dancers stresses me out so much.”
Zuko glances over at you at a red light, his expression full of understanding.
“Every single piece of feedback felt so personal,” you admit, looking out the window. “Even though I knew it wasn't, I just had to keep aggressively reminding myself of that the entire time. But then, to top it all off, the AC broke. After hour two, it was so hot I couldn't even think straight.”
“Hour two?” Zuko repeats, his jaw dropping slightly as he looks between you and the road. “You mean you danced for three hours in a building with no air conditioning? No wonder you look like you’re about to evaporate.”
He reaches over, gently adjusting the car’s vents so the crisp, icy air blows directly onto your face and arms.
“I knew Suki took her choreography seriously, but that sounds less like a wedding rehearsal and more like a survival trial,” he says, his tone a mix of protective irritation and genuine awe at what you just endured. “You’re something else, you know that? Most people would have walked out the second the thermometer hit ninety.”
You giggle, turning your gaze from the evening traffic to take in his handsome profile.
“As the maid of honor, shaking my ass in a hotbox was much more favorable than the ass-whooping I would be unable to outrun or win,” you mumble, the pure exhaustion making your filter completely disappear.
You reach across the center console, letting your overly warm hand settle right over his where it rests on the gearshift. The contrast of his cooler skin is an instant relief.
Zuko lets out a sudden, surprised laugh, the sound bright and genuine. He doesn't pull away; instead, he turns his palm upward under yours, threading his fingers through your shaking ones and squeezing tightly.
“Fair point,” he concedes, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he keeps his focus on the road ahead. “I’ve seen Suki take down grown men in sparring. I wouldn't want to test her bridal wrath either. But still—you went above and beyond today.”
He brings your joined hands up to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the back of your warm knuckles before resting them back down on his thigh, keeping you tethered to him. “We’ll have a lovely evening focused on relaxation, okay?” He says softly, his thumb traces soothing circles over your hand. “Carb galore, sugary delights, and if you behave, I see a foot massage in your future,” he teases.
You let out a soft, dramatic gasp, your eyes fluttering open as you look over at him. “A foot massage? Zuko, if you’re trying to seduce me after I’ve basically been melted down into a puddle of sweat, it is absolutely working.”
The promise of carbs, sugar, and hands on your aching feet is enough to make you completely forget about the grueling five hours you just survived. You squeeze his hand, leaning your head completely into the plush headrest and letting your eyelids grow heavy as the icy car air continues to rescue your overheated skin.
“And for the record,” you add, a sleepy smile tugging at the corners of your lips, “I am always on my best behavior. It’s Suki who turns me into a menace. But tonight? I am entirely yours to pamper.”
Zuko’s chuckle is low and warm, vibrating through the quiet space of the car as he smoothly navigates the streets toward his home. The stressful, suffocating atmosphere of the dance studio completely evaporates, leaving nothing but the quiet hum of the engine, the blast of the AC, and the comforting weight of his hand holding yours.
The smooth, quiet purr of the BMW’s engine finally cuts out as Zuko glides the car into his assigned spot inside the penthouse parking garage.
He unbuckles his seatbelt and turns to look at you, but the witty remark he has prepared dies on his lips. You are completely out. Your head is tilted against the headrest, your breathing deep and even, thoroughly exhausted from the five-hour marathon.
Zuko lets out a quiet, affectionate huff. Realizing there is absolutely no way you're walking up to the penthouse on your own two shaking legs, he pulls out his phone. Instead of dragging you into a crowded restaurant in your current state, he opens the app for the high-end eatery located right on the ground floor of his complex. He quickly places an order for a massive spread of comfort food—plenty of savory carbs and a few sugary delights—timing it to arrive right at his door by the time you’re done bathing.
Setting the phone aside, he quietly steps out of the car. He slips your gym bag over his shoulder, walks around to the passenger side, and gently opens the door.
You don’t even stir when the cool garage air hits you, nor when he carefully unbuckles your seatbelt. Bending down, Zuko hooks one strong arm beneath your knees and the other securely behind your back, lifting you effortlessly from the leather seat.
You instinctively murmur something completely incoherent, shifting your weight to tuck your face into the warm crook of his neck as he closes the car door with his foot. Holding you close against his chest, he carries you across the quiet garage floor and straight toward the private elevator foyer, the steady rise and fall of your chest the only sound echoing in the space.
The elevator dings softly as it opens directly into his penthouse. Zuko carries you across the polished floors and carefully lowers you onto the deep, plush cushions of the living room sofa.
The sudden loss of his body heat and the shift in positioning makes you stir. You let out a quiet, pathetic whine, your eyes still squeezed tightly shut as you blindly reach out for him. “Baby, stop moving…” you mumble into the fabric of the couch, completely dead to the world.
Zuko lets out a quiet chuckle, the sound echoing in the quiet room. Instead of stepping away, he squats down right beside the sofa, bringing himself eye-level with your sleepy, flushed face. He reaches out, gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your cheek with the back of his fingers.
“I’m right here,” he says softly, his voice a comforting, quiet anchor. “But you are covered in a layer of sweat, beautiful. Do you want to try and wash the day off? I can carry you to the bathroom—would you rather a quick shower, or do you want me to run a hot bath for you?”
You mumble drowsily, your arm reaching out to blindly tug at his shirt. “Want you…” You shift your weight against the cushions, burying your face a little deeper into the pillow. “Either will do.”
After a beat of heavy silence, you force your eyelids to flutter open. The ambient lighting of the penthouse catches the sharp angles of his face, and you just stare up at him for a second, completely intoxicated by exhaustion.
“Shower,” you clarify, your voice a raspy, quiet murmur as you take him in. “I’ll do a shower... ’cause my hair is dirty. Can’t have you smelling it while we’re sleeping.”
Zuko lets out a genuine, rumbling chuckle, his shoulders shaking slightly as he looks down at you. Even when you are running on absolute fumes and seeing double, your brain is somehow prioritizing his olfactory comfort.
“I assure you, I wouldn't care,” he says softly, his thumb gently smoothing over your cheekbone. “But a shower it is.”
He slides his arms back under your frame, effortlessly lifting you from the plush couch once more. You let out a breathy sigh of relief, looping your arms loosely around his neck as he carries you down the hallway toward the master bathroom, the grueling memory of the dance studio finally fading away into the background.
“You’re so good to me,” you mumble into his shoulder, your voice muffled by his shirt. You don’t even bother opening your eyes, completely content to just trust his movements as you feel him navigate the spacious master bathroom.
Zuko doesn't say a word, but the gentle way he adjusts your weight speaks volumes. He turns the water on, setting it to the overhead rainfall showerhead and carefully dialing the temperature to the perfect, steaming setting you always prefer. He reaches over to click on the towel warmer, ensuring a plush sheet of fabric will be waiting to rescue you when you're done, and double-checks the ledge to make sure all of your favorite hair care products are already lined up.
Knowing how tangled your hair gets after being contained in a bun, he grabs a detangling brush from the vanity drawer and places it right on the built-in shower shelf within easy reach.
Finally, he carefully maneuvers you over to the cool marble counter, lifting you up to sit on the edge.
He keeps his hands resting gently on either side of your hips to ensure your balance, leaning in until his forehead rests against yours. The heavy, warm steam is already beginning to fill the room, instantly working to loosen the tight, throbbing ache in your muscles.
“Only the best for my princess,” he murmurs against your skin, a soft smile evident in his voice. He gives your waist a gentle squeeze. “Do you need me to help you out of the clothes, or can you manage the peeling process while I go grab some pajamas for you to change into?
You offer a sleepy, appreciative smile, your hands reaching down to the hem of your thoroughly soaked sports bra. “I can manage the peeling process,” you murmur, though the thought of wrestling yourself out of the damp, tight spandex makes you want to sigh.
Before he can step away, your fingers lightly hook into the belt loops of his pants, pulling him back just an inch. You look up at him, your eyes soft and completely vulnerable with exhaustion. “But... do you mind sitting in here with me?” you ask quietly, your voice dropping to a small confession. “Just to keep me company. If I’m left alone with my thoughts, I know I’m just going to stare at the tile and stress over all the eight-counts I forgot today.”
Zuko’s expression instantly melts, any lingering teasing completely vanishing from his dark eyes. He reaches up, his large, warm hand gently cupping the side of your neck, his thumb tracing your jawline. “Of course I don't mind,” he says softly, pressing a gentle, reassuring kiss to your forehead. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He steps back just enough to let you handle the struggle of changing out of your workout gear, but he doesn't leave the room. Instead, he grabs the plush vanity stool and sits down.
As you finally step into the glorious, steaming rainfall of the shower, you look through the glass to see him leaning back, his focus entirely on you, ready to talk about absolutely anything it takes to drown out the phantom count of Suki’s voice in your head.
The second the steaming water hits your skin, a long, ragged sigh escapes your lips. It feels like the past five hours of tension, Suki’s sharp directives, and the stifling 97-degree heatwave are finally being washed down the drain. You stand under the rainfall head, letting the heat sink deep into your throbbing shoulders and aching lower back, completely dead to the world for a solid minute.
Through the fogged-up glass, Zuko is a comforting, dark silhouette sitting patiently on the vanity stool.
“How has your week been handsome?” You inquire, beginning the laborious journey of washing your hair.
He hums, watching your form through the translucent glass, utterly enamored with your existence. “Well…it wasn't the worst. However, I did tell my assistant today that Tuesday through Thursday travel is no longer acceptable. I really fucking hated not being able to see you in the middle of my week—”
His bluntness makes you burst into laughter. The sound makes his lips quirk into a wider smile. “I’m incredibly serious. I felt like a fiend in need of my next hit. By Thursday it was a bad day to be my employee or associate and they for sure noticed,” he concludes with a light laugh.
You let out another loud splash of laughter, the sound echoing richly against the tiled walls of the shower as you work the shampoo into a thick lather. “Oh, so you’re telling me you single-handedly terrorized your entire office just because you missed me?”
“I am completely unashamed to admit that, yes,” Zuko’s voice carries smoothly over the steady rush of the shower. Through the steam-fogged glass, you can see his silhouette leaning forward, his arms resting on his knees as he keeps his eyes fixed on your shape. “My assistant actually sighed with relief when I told her I was leaving early because I had plans with you. I think they were all ready to pool their money to buy me a plane ticket back to you just to save their own skin.”
You shake your head, rinsing the stray conditioner from near your eyes as you step deeper into the steaming water. The sheer warmth of his confession does a better job of melting away your exhaustion than the hot water ever could.
“I’ve seen you fired up sweetie, you’re beyond attractive—but boy are you not to be fucked with. Like a demon on a war path. Man on a mission—phenomenal sex comes from it, but I just know the cost was someone getting fired,” you comment, taking your time to detangle the four sections you’ve put your hair in.
Zuko lets out a low, rough chuckle that vibrates through the room, clearly amused and not at all denying the accusation.
"First of all, I'm glad the benefits of my focus are appreciated," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, heavy with a playful sort of heat that makes the steam in the room feel twice as thick. "Second, no one got fired. Threatened? Maybe. Strongly reprimanded for lack of efficiency? Definitely. But I kept it reined in just enough to ensure I'd have a company left to run when I got back."
You see him shift, leaning back slightly on the vanity stool as he watches you patiently work the brush through the third section of your hair.
"Besides," he adds, his tone softening into something much more tender, "it’s hard not to be a man on a mission when the prize at the end of the week is getting to take care of you like this. Take your time with those sections, princess. I'm not going anywhere."
You smile to yourself, the tension in your shoulders completely gone as you finish up the last section of your hair, haphazardly complete two standard scalp braids, and move to actually cleaning your body, the soothing warmth of the water enveloping you while Zuko's quiet presence keeps the rest of the world entirely locked outside.
You finish rinsing the last bit of soap off, letting the clean water cascade over your face and body for one more lingering moment. With a satisfying twist of the handle, the steady rush of the rainfall showerhead cuts off, leaving the bathroom in a warm, heavy silence filled only by the soft pitter-patter of stray droplets hitting the tile.
Before you can even reach for the handle, the glass door slides open, releasing a thick cloud of steam into the room.
Zuko is standing right there. He’s already holding the massive, plush bath sheet that had been warming on the rack. Without a word, he steps closer and wraps the heated fabric securely around your shoulders, instantly shielding your damp skin from the cooler air of the bathroom.
“Come here,” he murmurs, his hands lingering on your shoulders through the towel as he guides you to step out onto the thick, memory foam bath mat.
You lean into his touch immediately, letting your head rest against his shoulder as he uses the ends of the towel to gently blot the excess water from your arms and back. The sheer luxury of being taken care of like this makes a soft, content sigh escape your lips.
“I love your fine ass so much,” you breathe, nuzzling your head into his chest.
“Yeah, how much?” Zuko teases, handing you your microfiber towel for your hair. Then he goes back to drying you off.
You hum, faux thinking. Your hands slip to his shoulders, your fingers lightly digging into the soft fabric of his shirt for balance as he crouches lower, working the warm plush bath sheet down your thighs and calves.
As he finishes drying your legs, Zuko doesn't stand back up right away. He drops the towel to the floor, his large, warm hands smoothing up the sides of your hips, anchoring you in place. He leans forward, pressing a warm, lingering kiss right against your hip bone, making a soft shiver run down your spine.
Zuko starts pressing open-mouthed, lingering kisses across your abdomen, tracing the line of your hip bones, then moving back to the center to press a warm, firm kiss right over your belly button. You let out a long, dreamy sigh, your head tilting back onto the glass as your fingers trail up the lines of his shoulder and neck before tangling into the hair he has loose from his half-up hairstyle.
“Tell me," he demands quietly against your skin, his voice teasing.
“So much that one kiss from you has me wet all over again," you whisper, the words coming out completely breathless.
Zuko chuckles softly, the vibration of his mouth against your skin making your stomach muscles flutter. His hands slide down to the back of your thighs, pulling you just a fraction of an inch closer as his kisses track downward, leaving a damp, burning trail over your skin.
When his breath fans against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, you instinctively grip his hair tighter, your knees going a little weak. Zuko mutters a quiet, possessive sound of approval, his fingers squeezing ever so slightly to hold you steady as he leans in completely.
He doesn’t make you wait. He doesn’t tease you. He moves with purpose, the first touch of his tongue diving directly between your slick folds, making your hips arch into him. He moans at the taste of you, and you moan at the feeling of him.
“Oh…God,” you whimper, your voice fractured and breathless as your fingers anchor deep into his hair. “Zuko, please... you’re so good to me.”
Zuko strokes upward, slow and deliberating, savoring your taste after a long week apart. He works you masterfully, alternating between firm movements and teasing kisses, drinking in the sweet, desperate praise you keep pouring over him. But as his lips wrap around your clit, your mind loses all reason. Your toes curl into the mat and your back bows.
“You’re sooo f-fucking perfect,” you gasp out, your head hitting the glass behind you.
And when his teeth lightly graze over the sensitive bundle of nerves, you convulse underneath his touch. Your orgasm is sensory-shattering; your eyes flutter closed, and your mouth falls open in a drawn-out, desperate moan of his name.
Zuko doesn’t stop, though. He keeps going, lapping up your release as if it's the only thing to drink for miles. Even as you whimper, your hands weakly tugging at his hair to beg for mercy, he simply shakes his head against your thighs to signify he’s not done.
“You're doing so well for me, beautiful,” he whispers against your slick skin, his voice thick with praise that melts straight into your core.
As he pushes you past overstimulation, your ragged breathing picks up. Your weak whimpers turn right back into compliant, needy moans as the coil in your stomach winds up even tighter, dragging you effortlessly toward a second, even deeper wave.
The bathroom is a symphony of moans and the sound of Zuko eating you like a five-course meal. He makes a beautifully curated mess in between your legs with your arousal and his saliva mixing together in a way that has him gripping you impossibly tight.
“Zu–zuko, baby, I–” your words are interrupted by another high pitched moan as your legs start to shake again in anticipation. “Fuck.”
The friction of his tongue against your hyper-sensitized skin sends fierce, electric jolts straight to your core. Your hips shudder, instinctively trying to pull back from the sheer intensity of it, but Zuko’s grip on your thighs is unyielding. He holds you right where he wants you, keeping your trembling frame pinned to the shower wall as he picks up the pace.
"Zuko—wait, please," you sob out, the praise turning into a breathless plea as your hands scramble to find purchase on his shoulders. "I can't... it's too much, baby, I'm too sensitive—"
"You can," he mutters against you, the sensation sends goosebumps down your legs. "Keep being a good girl for me, beautiful. You're so close."
Hearing his encouragement completely breaks whatever resolve you have left. You abandon all resistance, your fingers tangling desperately back into his hair to pull him closer, guiding him as his tongue strokes firmly over your clit once more. The coil in your stomach snaps with terrifying speed.
Your second climax hits harder than the first, a violent, full-body rush that leaves you gasping for oxygen and grappling for stability. Your thighs tremor against his cheeks as a long, high-pitched whine tears from your throat, your vision blurring as you ride out the wave of pure pleasure.
Zuko slows his movements, executing a few final, soothing laps to catch the last of your release before he finally, slowly, lifts his head.
His lips are slick and glistening, his dark hair beautifully disheveled from your frantic fingers, and his eyes are completely glowing with satisfaction. He rests his forehead against your inner thigh for a brief moment, breathing deeply, just enjoying the heavy, rhythmic trembling of your legs.
A small, victorious smile tugging at his lips as he looks up at your dazed, thoroughly ruined form. "I told you you could do it."
Slowly, Zuko pushes himself up from his knees, his muscles shifting fluidly as he rises to his full height. Your legs are so weak they feel entirely like jelly, and the second his hold leaves your thighs, you start to slide.
He anticipates it instantly. Before your feet can slip from underneath you, Zuko catches you, looping one strong arm under your knees and the other around your waist to scoop you up against his chest once more.
You let out a soft, defeated groan, your head lolls onto his shoulder as you bury your face into the crook of his neck. Your skin is flushed, your heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs, and the lingering tremors from the double climax are still rippling through your clit.
“I never doubted it for a minute,” you tease, voice raspy. You watch him through low lidded eyes as he passes a warm towel in between your legs to wipe away the residuals of your climaxes. “I promise, the moment feeling returns to my legs and I have a carb in my system, I’m sucking your dick and drinking it like an oreo milkshake from Sonic.”
Your statement makes him choke on air. His eyes shoot up from your satisfied cunt to your face—mouth open. “Pa-pardon?”
You cackle at his shock. Thoroughly pleased with yourself for catching him by surprise. Over the past several months, he’s gotten accustomed to your lack of filter, raw honesty, and proud vocalizations, but there are still times where you completely blindside him—and this is one of those lovely times.
“I will. I mean it. I want to lick you like a lollipop, choke on it, and still try my best to swallow you whole until it eventually leads to you painting my throat with your kids.” He’s speechless and you love it. “ Sounds like a great time, right?”
He closes his eyes for a brief moment, taking a deep breath through his nose to calm down. “L–Let’s get a real meal in you before you and I burn calories you don’t have after practically evaporating in a dance studio,” his voice carries no real weight as he looks at you more than ready to cash-in on your promise.
“I think cum is a real meal when it’s yours. Matter-of-fact, I would argue that with your eating habits there’s probably protein, vitamin D, and omega-3’s in your semen—” you pause as he breaks out into a carefree laugh. He’s completely undone by your audacity and imagination.
His eyes crinkle, his shoulders shake, and the way his face lights up from laughter makes your smile feel permanent. A small giggle slips past your lips at how easy the big-bad-business man turns soft around you.
Zuko swallows hard, his throat bobbing as he forces the last of his laughter down. He pinches the bridge of his nose, letting out a long, slow breath in a desperate bid to summon the disciplined, unshakeable CEO who routinely commands boardrooms.
It is a valiant effort. It lasts all of three seconds.
The moment his dark eyes drop back down to your smug, thoroughly pleased face, a betraying dimple pops into his cheek. "Omega-3s," he repeats, his voice flat with disbelief, though it cracks slightly at the end. "You are rationalizing a blowjob using dietary guidelines, princess?"
"I’m just saying, it’s a wellness trend waiting to happen," you reply smoothly, wrapping your arms tighter around his neck. “I’d also like to add that I think what I plan on doing to you transcends this archaic blowjob verbage. The way you just gobbled me up will be returned ten-fold.”
He starts to carry you out of the bathroom, his stride purposeful, but the flush creeping up his neck tells on him completely. He’s trying so hard to play the mature caretaker, but your words have clearly left a vivid, burning image in his head.
"I'm going to set you on the bed," he states, his tone dripping with a stern authority that is entirely ruined by the way his thumb is absentmindedly tracing a slow circle on your bare thigh. "You are going to put on the sweatpants and shirt I laid out. And then I am going to fetch the takeout before you can give me a lecture on the caloric density of my own fluids."
You let out a loud, delighted cackle against his collarbone. "Oh, so you're running away from greatness?"
Zuko stops right at the edge of the mattress, lowering you onto the plush covers with immense care, but he doesn't untangle himself immediately. Instead, he hovers over you, his loose dark hair framing his face as his gaze darkens into something heavy, warm, and promising.
"I am securing your stamina," he murmurs, his lips brushing yours just a fraction of an inch as he speaks. "Because if you think I'm letting you off the hook for that Sonic milkshake comment after dinner, you've highly underestimated my appetite."
You practically explode with giggles as you watch him walk away, shaking his head at the way you leave him discombobulated and inside-out. Your hands grab the T-shirt he placed on the bed for you. You slip the thick, pure cotton fabric over your head and sigh at the cozy sensation it envelopes you in. You ignore the sweatpants. Instead you place them on the nightstand on your side and grab the tablet he calls a remote.
You navigate the viewing platforms like a seasoned veteran finding The Wayans Bros. with ease. Rather intentionally or not, it’s up for debate in your friend group if you’ve conditioned Zuko to only watch Black Classic re-runs only, but it’s the only television shows he watches now. From Girlfriends to Living Single, The Game, The Have and The Have-Nots, he’s watching it with you and when anything else is on television that doesn’t have a primarily Black cast, he’s checked all the way out. Even his habit of watching documentaries has been narrowed to only watching the ones with Morgan Freeman as the narrator.
He walks back into the bedroom balancing a massive, multi-tiered bag of high-end takeout and a serving tray, his expression carefully reset to his neutral, composed caretaker baseline.
That baseline lasts precisely until he crosses the threshold.
His eyes do a quick sweep of the bed. They linger on the discarded sweatpants sitting safely on the nightstand, trace the bare expanse of your legs, and finally land on his oversized cotton T-shirt hanging loosely off your shoulders. He lets out a quiet, defeated huff through his nose, but before he can even open his mouth to call you out on your blatant rule-breaking, the loud, chaotic theme song of The Wayans Bros. blasts through his state-of-the-art surround sound speakers.
He carefully sets the massive spread of food down on the long bench at the foot of the bed, organizing the boxes with automated efficiency on the tray before finally looking back up at you.
"I explicitly remember giving a directive regarding the sweatpants," he murmurs, his voice low as he walks around to your side of the bed, cautiously setting the tray over your lap. But before he can even attempt to look stern, his dark eyes track the screen.
Marlon is currently mid-sentence, executing a piece of physical comedy so wildly dramatic that Zuko’s jaw subtly tightens as he tries to hold back a reaction. He stands there at the edge of the mattress, completely paralyzed by the plot, his hands hovering over his hips as he gets instantly sucked into the screen.
"Is this the episode where Marlon tries to become a high-fashion model?" Zuko asks, his serious, deep baritone completely contrasting the ridiculousness of the question. He doesn't even realize he’s leaning forward, his focus entirely hijacked by the television.
"Yep," you pop the 'p', shifting over just an inch to make room for him on the plush covers. "The one where he changes his name to 'Ikky' and wears the trash bag suit."
"Right. The trash bag," Zuko repeats under his breath. He doesn't even fight it anymore. The disciplined, high-powered businessman completely checks out, utterly defeated by the conditioning your friend group loves to laugh about. He kicks off his slippers and slides onto the bed right beside you, immediately reaching over to pull your bare, aching thighs over his lap.
His large, warm hands effortlessly find the tight, throbbing muscles of your calves, his fingers immediately digging into the knots with the expert pressure of a promised massage. He doesn't take his eyes off the screen for a single second as the laugh track blares.
You oscillate between feeding the both of you and watching him watch TV. There’s just something so insanely attractive about a man falling in love with your culture that it has you counting down the seconds this episode is over. It doesn’t help either that the way he massages your legs just right has you letting out quiet moans and whimpers of appreciation.
The combination of Marlon’s runway chaos, savory comfort food, and Zuko’s deeply attentive hands creates a heavy, intoxicating domestic bliss. The room is filled with the rhythmic sounds of the television laugh track, the clink of takeout containers, and the quiet, involuntary sounds of your body completely surrendering to his touch.
Every time his thumbs dig into a particularly tight spot on your calves or sweep up the back of your knee, a soft, breathless whimper escapes you. You press a forkful of high-end short rib or a piece of something wonderfully carby to his lips, and he accepts it automatically, his jaw working as his eyes remain glued to the screen. He doesn't even blink when Shawn and Marlon start bickering, completely locked into the ecosystem of the show.
Seeing this intensely serious man—who normally commands multi-million dollar rooms—so entirely at peace, so thoroughly integrated into your world and your comfort, makes your chest ache with a fierce, quiet warmth. It’s an incredibly potent aphrodisiac.
Your inner thigh muscle twitches underneath his touch as his hand glides further underneath your night shirt. You exhale sharply as he applies just the right amount of pressure to the sore tendons. You lay your head further back on the pillows, allowing your eyes to close and soak in the moment.
Zuko’s lips quirk up as he sees you surrender to relaxation out of his peripheral, but he’s not letting you get away with your tongue in cheek remarks without repercussions. He works his hand up slowly, before allowing his fingers to trace down the folds of your embarrassingly wet cunt.
Your eyes flutter open immediately. “Now Prince, what kind of massage parlour are you running?”
He doesn’t turn his gaze away from Marlon’s shenanigans. “The one with a happy ending, can’t have any unsatisfied customers—and I just know if I don’t bury my fingers in you that’s exactly what you’ll be,” he punctuates his sentence by gliding two of his fingers between your soaking walls.
The moan you let out carries over the laughtrack, but Zuko doesn’t bother turning his attention to you just yet. Instead, he works you open with passive precision.
Your fingers grasp the serving tray like a lifeline. Every plunge is accompanied by his thumb working over your sensitive clit. Still on edge from the way he worked you over in the shower.
It’s electric. It’s addicting.
He fingers you like he fucks you—patiently, deeply, perfectly.
“Zu–zuko,” it's a broken gasp. A ruined sentence and lost thought.
He curves his fingers, ensuring that they drag along that spongy spot that makes your thoughts turn to glitter. “Yes, princess?”
Squelch
The moment the sound reaches your ears over the sound of the TV, your eyes roll back. It’s intoxicating to see what he does to you and vice-versa, but there’s something so obscene and filthy about hearing it. “ I-I’m–Ohhhhh fuck”
The bamboo of the tray leaves indents in your palms from how tightly you hold on to it for stability. Your legs shake. The muscles he just loosened tighten up once again as the knot in your stomach finally combusts underneath his touch.
A soundless moan slips past your parted lips, mixing in with the outro theme song. It’s only then that Zuko turns his gaze to face you and the mess he’s made of you—the mess he’s only getting started with.
“Y–you’re unbelievable" you breathe, taking big gulps of air as the waves of your orgasm start to subside. The mischievous look on his face makes your eye twitch. It’s not fair that he’s able to discombobulate you with the flick of his wrist. Your pout deepens. “I was building my stamina so I can perform beautifully for dessert and here you are dismantling dinner etiquette. Have you no shame?”
He chuckles, hooking his fingers to drag them along your upper walls as he pulls them out. “You had no shame looking me in the eye to tell me the nutritional value of my—”
“Ah–ah, my dessert? Why yes I did not. Why would I be ashamed to talk about the secret sauce of my life? The Krabby Patty formula of my world, the peanut butter that makes my body feel like Jelly. BUT, I still stand by the fact that you played dirty.”
Zuko’s fingers are still glistening as he sets the tray completely off the bed, his pretty gold eyes fixed on your flushed face. The dramatic, rapid-fire comparison to late-night cartoon lore and pantry staples has the corner of his mouth twitching all over again. He lets out a breathy, thoroughly defeated laugh, shaking his head as he pulls a couple of wet wipes from the takeout bag to clean his hands.
“The Krabby Patty formula,” he repeats, his voice dropping into that quiet gravelly tone that means he’s completely amused but entirely dangerous. “You are out of your mind. Truly. I’m trying to ensure you don't faint on me, and you’re treating my anatomy like a Saturday morning cartoon lineup.”
He tosses the crumpled wipe onto the nightstand and crawls up the mattress, his movements slow, deliberate, and predatory. The TV screen shifts to the opening credits of the next episode, casting a blue hue over the sharp angles of his jaw line.
“And for the record,” he murmurs, his large frame hovering directly over yours, pinning you into the plush pillows without putting a single ounce of heavy pressure on your sore muscles. He hooks a finger under the collar of his oversized shirt, tugging it down just enough to expose the heavy pulse beating at the base of your throat. “I always play dirty when it comes to you. Especially when you lie to me.”
You blink up at him through heavy, post-orgasmic lids, your bottom lip still tucked into a stubborn pout. “I have never lied to you a day in my life, Prince.”
“You told me you were building your stamina,” Zuko whispers, his lips brushing the sensitive skin right beneath your ear, making a fresh wave of goosebumps ripple down your bare legs. His hands slide up your waist, his thumbs tracing the underside of your breast. “But you melt the second I touch you. You’re completely undone, princess. If this was a survival trial, Suki would have kicked you out of the studio hours ago.”
The playful jab hits your competitive streak instantly. You shift beneath him, your hands flying up to grip the fabric of his shirt, pulling him down until his mouth is a mere breath away from yours.
“Suki doesn’t have a patent on my endurance,” you fire back, your voice a raspy, confident challenge despite the way your thighs are still faintly trembling against the sheets. “And I am a woman of my word. The main course is settled. I believe I promised you an Oreo milkshake, and I intend to collect on my recipe.”
Zuko’s gaze darkens, the amusement instantly melting into a heavy, unadulterated hunger that has your stomach doing backflips. He doesn't say a word; he just reaches down, his fingers curling into the hem of the shirt and pulling it up over your head in one swift motion, tossing it blindly across the room.
“Show me,” he challenges softly, his voice thick and possessive as he moves down the bed, his hands smoothing over your skin with a reverence that makes you feel entirely worshiped. “Let’s see how well your guidelines hold up.”
You don’t even hesitate. The sudden rush of cooler bedroom air against your bare skin is immediately replaced by the intense, radiated heat of Zuko’s body as you shift, using what’s left of your strength to roll him onto his back. He lets you do it, a low rumble of approval vibrating in his chest as he settles deep into the pillows, his dark hair sprawling across the fabric like a halo of controlled chaos.
You sit astride his thighs, the friction of your bare skin against his soft trousers instantly dialing the tension in the room back up to a fever pitch. You slide down his frame, your knees framing his thighs as your hands work the button and zipper of his trousers with surprisingly steady fingers. The moment he is freed from the fabric, your breath catches in your throat.
He’s thick, fully hard, and beautifully heavy, a light sheen of pre-cum already glistening at the tip. The sight of him—combined with the quiet, domestic background noise of the television transitioning into the next scene—makes your mouth go completely dry.
You don’t hesitate. Exhaustion be damned, the sheer adrenaline of having him like this after a week apart completely takes over. You look up at him, a wicked, sleepy smirk breaking through your dazed expression. “Nutrition time, Prince.”
You lean forward, your lips parting as you take the crown of his length into your mouth. The contrast is immediate—the slick, burning heat of your throat enveloping him completely. You slide your tongue along the underside of his shaft, tracing the sensitive line all the way to the base before pulling back to swirl your tongue directly over the tip, catching the sweet, heavy taste of him.
You moan, eyes fluttering close as you savor the way his pre coats your tongue. You may be dickmatized, you may just be right, but you’re certain he tastes like a protein shake.
Zuko watches you through half-lidded eyes; seemingly hypnotized himself as he observes the way you lose yourself through pleasing him. “Fuck, beautiful,” he rasps, his head tilting back as your lips slide further down his length.
You don’t play fair. You use everything you’ve got—the wet, suctioning heat of your mouth, the friction of your tongue, and the expert stroke of your hand moving in perfect synchronization. You take him deeper, letting his thickness stretch your lips, your throat contracting around him just enough to mimic the tight, crushing rhythm he loves. You look up at him through your lashes, entirely smug as you watch the disciplined, unshakeable CEO completely dissolve beneath your touch.
You take him deeper, your throat contracting around his thick width, deliberately testing your own limits just to hear the wrecked, possessive sounds he makes. Zuko’s hand leaves the sheet, his large, warm palm coming down to rest against the back of your head. He doesn’t push, he never forces you, but the heavy, trembling weight of his hand is a clear indication of how close he is to the edge.
“Fuck, baby… you’re doing so perfectly,” he rasps, his hips stuttering a tentative, needy rhythm against your mouth. “Such a good job, princess.”
Hearing his praise, mixed with the faint, ridiculous backdrop of the Wayans Bros. transition music still playing on the television, pushes you into overdrive. You pick up the pace, bobbing your head in a rhythm that mimics the aggressive choreography you’d struggled with all day, but here? Here, you aren't missing a single beat. Your hand works his base while your mouth creates a fierce, merciless vacuum, swallowing him as deep as your throat will allow.
Zuko’s breath turns into short, fractured pants. His abdominal muscles lock up, turning into hard ridges beneath your hands as his thumb digs firmly into the nape of your neck.
He’s close.
And that makes your own core throb with anticipation and pleasure.
You take a deep breath of air before forcing him further down. Blinking past the tears building on your waterline and the discomfort having him so deep causes. You put on a performance that makes him breathless and speechless. Moving with a level of expertness that would have his sane mind asking you where you could have learned this from.
Zuko lets out a loud, ruined groan, his fingers tangling into your hair with sudden, possessive force—not to pull you away, but to hold you flush against him as he finally breaks.
The first thick wave of his release hits the back of your throat, hot and heavy. True to your chaotic promise, you don't flinch. You swallow him down, your throat pulsing around him as he pumps wave after wave into your mouth, his body shuddering violently between your legs. He moans your name into the room, a sound so raw and utterly defeated it makes your own stomach tighten with the phantom ache of pleasure.
You stay right there, sucking gently to catch every last drop of his release until his pulse finally begins to slow from a frantic sprint back to a heavy, throbbing baseline.
Slowly, you slide your mouth off his length, letting out a soft, wet pop. You wipe the corner of your mouth with your thumb, looking up at him with a thoroughly triumphant, heavy-lidded gaze.
“Compliments to the chef,” you rasp, climbing up his body to sit on his lap. Your smile widens as you take in his flushed cheeks, unfocused gaze, and slightly parted lips. “Now that’s how I like my man to look, hypnotized by me.”
He exhales roughly, letting out a sound that's half amused, but purely smitten. “I am entirely hypnotized by you. Bewitched. Enamored. Utterly at your mercy, princess,” Zuko’s voice is husky, two octaves lower than his baseline, and it makes your walls clench in want. “Phenomenal performance.”
The word performance acts like a trigger.
You made a promise. To help Suki find a dance studio.
Your eyes flicker to the bedside clock. 5:07 p.m.
Shit.
Zuko senses the shift in your energy immediately, watching the way your face morphs into one of horror and absolute fear. Before he can open his mouth to ask what’s wrong, you start panicking aloud—a habit you’ve picked up over the past few months ever since the chaotic way you told him you love him.
“Baby, I fucked up. I—I was supposed to come home, shower, open a bottle of wine, eat a big-ass meal, and call dance studios for the weekend. I did not do that. I did you instead. Which, I personally prefer, but oh my God, I’m a dead bitch. The offices are going to be closed, baby. It’s fucking five—FIVE. I had one fucking job and—”
“Breathe,” he instructs simply.
Your body listens on autopilot. Your mouth snaps shut and you take a big, deep breath.
Zuko winds his arms around your waist, pulling you closer so that you invade his space until the deep breath you release fans across his neck. “We have a dance studio downstairs—two of them. I’m sure at least one is open for reservation. If not, that’s okay. One of the company properties has a fitness area that’s open-floor, has mirrors on the wall, and A/C. Crisis averted, okay? Keep taking deep breaths for me and I’ll contact concierge.”
You drop your head on his shoulder. His words blanket over your rising panic and soothe your heart rate back to baseline. You lift your arms to wrap them around his neck, pressing yourself flush against him as he picks up the service phone from his side of the nightstand.
“Evening, David. I’m calling to ask if the fourth-floor dance studio is open for the weekend?” Zuko’s fingers dance along your lower back, tracing patterns as he waits for David to check the schedule. He watches with utter fascination as goosebumps form immediately underneath his touch—captivated by the way your breathing has become level, and the way your hips let out a small, involuntary jerk whenever his thumb applies pressure to a specific patch of sensitive skin.
“Amazing. I’d like to reserve it for the entire weekend.”
Zuko locks in the confirmation with a few brief, polite words before setting the receiver back onto its cradle. The second the line goes dead, you let out a soft, heavy sigh of relief against his neck, your lips brushing his skin as you mumble a quiet, heartfelt thank-you directly into his ear.
To match the lazy, possessive way his fingers are still working over your lower back, you slip your hands beneath the collar of his shirt, mimicking his slow movements across the broad expanse of his shoulder blades. Your nails lightly dig into his skin, dragging down just enough to make his muscles tighten in a long, pleased stretch beneath you.
He lets out a low, rough rumble, his arms tightening around your waist to pull you completely into his chest. “You are a thousand times welcome, princess,” he murmurs, his voice thick with a sweet, genuine warmth. “I’m just glad I was able to help.”
You let your eyes flutter closed, entirely content to be held by him. “Honestly, even if the building didn't have a studio, I think you would have magically found a way anyway,” you muse softly, a sleepy smile pressing into his collarbone. “You have a ridiculous provider spirit, Prince. It's an incredibly attractive trait.”
“Now, take this off for me” you murmur into his skin, the bluntness of the request sliding out with that same sleepy, zero-filter honesty he’s grown to love. You tug lightly at the cotton fabric trapped between your fingers. “I want to feel you. All the way.”
Zuko doesn't hesitate. The absolute compliance in his movements is a quiet thrill, especially from a man who spends his days giving directives to everyone else. He releases your waist, sits up just enough to pull the dark fabric over his head in one smooth, fluid motion, and tosses it blindly toward the foot of the bed.
The moment he settles back down, the direct contrast of his bare chest against your skin is an absolute blessing. He is solid, radiating a deep, natural heat that instantly makes you feel anchored.
You slide right back into his space, letting out a soft, content hum as you lay your cheek directly over his heartbeat. Your hands map the familiar ridges of his shoulders, your nails lightly trailing down the center of his spine, leaving faint, vanishing tracks in their wake.
“Better?” he whispers, his large hand coming up gently to fiddle with the end of your braids.
“Incredibly,” you mumble, your eyes fluttering shut as the rhythmic, steady thud beneath your cheek completely hypnotizes you. The heavy scent of his clean skin and the faint, lingering trace of the savory short ribs on the air create a heavy capsule of domestic bliss. “Let me take a ten minute nap. I want to have sex, because I feel like I need to drown in your presence and I think having you fuck me seven ways till Sunday will give me that. Make up for the seven days I didn’t get to see you how I like.”
Zuko’s entire chest stalls beneath your cheek, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat dropping a single, hard thud against your ribs before picking back up at a decidedly faster pace. The utter filth sliding out of your mouth in such a soft, sleepy mumble catches him completely off guard, the sheer audacity of your timeline making him choke on a breath.
He lets out a low, rough sound—halfway between a strangled laugh and a dark, entirely undone groan. His fingers stop their gentle fiddling at the ends of your braids, his large palm coming down flat and heavy against the back of your head, pinning you gently but firmly to his collarbone.
"Seven ways till Sunday," he repeats, his voice incredibly husky, the vibration rattling through his chest. He shakes his head against the pillows, a betraying dimple popping straight into his flushed cheek as he stares up at the ceiling. "You are completely lawless when you're exhausted. I am trying to be a gentleman, to let you rest your aching muscles, and you're lying on my chest treating my body like a marathon route."
"I am mathematically calculating the deficit of our intimacy over the last week," you mumble into his skin, your eyes locked entirely shut as the warmth of his bare torso completely pulls you under. "It's a strict evaluation, Prince. Don't fight the numbers."
Zuko lets out a genuine, rumbling chuckle, his shoulders shaking beneath your hands as his grip on your waist turns intensely possessive. He slides his large hand down to the back of your bare thigh, his fingers squeezing the tight muscle with a heavy, grounding weight that promises everything you just asked for.
"Ten minutes," he murmurs against your hair, his lips pressing a warm, lingering kiss into the crown of your head as he pulls the plush duvet up over both of your shoulders to shield your bare skin from the AC. "I'm setting a timer on my phone, princess. Sleep. Because the exact second those ten minutes are up, I am cashing in on every single one of those seven ways."
You let out a yawn, nuzzling your face into him. “Amazing, baby. Make it fifteen, but a hard fifteen. Not a second over or under. If I don’t get up, you have full permission to just roll me over and kick start the magic I plan on creating in this bed with you.”
Zuko lets out another low, thoroughly defeated laugh against your temple, his chest lifting beneath you in a deep, steady breath. The way you effortlessly negotiate an extra five minutes of sleep while simultaneously handing him absolute, unmitigated clearance to take what he wants is so uniquely you it makes his head spin.
"A hard fifteen," he murmurs, carefully maneuvering to grab the throw blanket from the edge of the bed. "Understood. The timer is locked in. I suggest you close your mouth and start counting sheep, princess, because you’re running out of seconds."
He wraps the blanket around you, watching you wiggle impossibly closer to him.
You don't even reply, a final, muffled hum against his collarbone serving as your compliance. The sheer weight of the five-hour rehearsal, the double climax in the shower, his massage and then his massage, the comfort food, and the heavy, radiated heat of his bare skin finally combine into the perfect sedative. Within two minutes, your breathing smooths out into a deep, rhythmic pattern, your body going completely compliant and heavy as you sink entirely into him.
Zuko doesn't move an inch. He lies perfectly still in the dim, blue-tinted light of the penthouse, his eyes completely fixed on the peaceful, soft expression of your face while you sleep. The loud, chaotic sounds of The Wayans Bros. transition music have long since faded into a low commercial break, but he isn't paying attention to the screen anymore. He reaches down with his free hand, quietly adjusting the plush duvet so it tucks perfectly around your shoulders, keeping you warm against the crisp blast of the air conditioner.
His fingers slide back up to the ends of your braids, lazily twirling a single strand between his fingertips as he watches the steady rise and fall of your chest against his. The sheer peace of having you tucked into his space after a brutal, suffocating week of travel is a luxury he didn't realize he was starving for until this exact moment.
He glances down at his phone resting on the nightstand. The glowing digital face reads 5:12 p.m.
The silent countdown of your hard fifteen minutes is ticking away, the numbers dropping steadily toward zero. Zuko’s gaze darkens just a fraction, a slow, predatory smirk pulling at the corner of his lips as his palm smooths down the curve of your hip, feeling the soft, trembling warmth of your skin. He is going to let you have every single second of the rest you’d earned.
But the exact moment that timer goes off, he is going to dismantle you.
The sharp, high-pitched chirp of the bedside service phone slices through the heavy silence of the penthouse, instantly shattering the deep, dead sleep you and Zuko are buried under.
Zuko flinches, a low, gravelly groan tearing from his throat as the noise repeats. He feels like he’s running on absolute fumes, his entire body heavy and thoroughly drained from the brutal marathon the two of you actually ended up executing until the early hours of the morning. Beside him, you don’t even stir; you are completely passed out, tangled face-down in the plush duvet, a bare leg draped heavily over his thighs, completely dead to the world.
With a blind, frustrated reach, Zuko rolls over and snatches the receiver off the cradle, slamming it against his ear before his golden eyes can even fully blink open.
"Yeah," he rasps, his deep baritone completely shot, rough and heavy with sleep.
"Good morning, Mr. Zuko," the smooth, apologetic voice of the downstairs concierge carries through the line. "I am so sorry to wake you, sir, but the Kyoshi Warriors dance team is currently in the lobby. A Ms.Suki states that they have a reservation for the fourth-floor studio, but they were hoping to come up to your unit first to drop off some rehearsal gear and grab your partner?"
Zuko stares blankly at the ceiling, his sleep-deprived brain completely stalling out. Dancers. In the lobby. Suki. He blinks once. Twice. He shifts his head to look at the bedside clock. 7:35 a.m.
He is utterly floored. He is half-asleep, thoroughly confused, and entirely convinced he is hallucinating. "They're... what?" he mumbles, rubbing a hand roughly over his face, trying to force his corporate brain to boot up. "It's seven in the morning on a Saturday."
"Yes, sir. There are about twelve of them. They are highly energetic, and Ms. Suki was very insistent that they were told to arrive early to maximize their eight-counts."
Zuko lets out a long, thoroughly defeated breath, pinching the bridge of his nose as the reality of the situation hits him. He glances down at your deeply sleeping, completely unbothered form beside him. "Right. Okay. Just... let them up to the penthouse elevator foyer, David. Give me five minutes."
He drops the phone back onto the cradle and turns his head, staring at you in absolute disbelief.
The missing puzzle piece is currently glowing on the nightstand. If Zuko were to pick up your phone right now, he would see a text thread from 11:30 p.m. the night before. Right in the middle of your fifteen-minute grace period—just as the adrenaline and wine had peaked—you had enthusiastically texted Suki: “Studio secured, baby! Fourth floor of Zuko’s building. We have the keys for the whole weekend, come whenever!”
Driven by bridal panic and military precision, Suki had instantly replied to the group chat: “Perfect. We meet at the lobby at 7:30 a.m. sharp. No lagging.”
But you hadn't looked back at your screen. You had been far too busy getting dismantled seven ways till Sunday to check the timestamp, leaving a stampede of passionate, high-energy dancers currently rising up the private elevator straight toward your peaceful, post-coital sanctuary.
He doesn’t wake you up immediately. Instead, Zuko slips on a pair of sweatpants and a crewneck. He navigates to the master bathroom, starting his skincare and dental hygiene. His hair an unruly mess rolling down his shoulder, with a hair tie loosely hanging on to the bottom strands for dear life.
When he steps back into the room, you’ve done nothing but scoot into the spot he vacated. Seemingly settling for the warm divot he left rather than his physical presence. Zuko lets out a small laugh of amusement, making his way to the kitchen. He presses the start button on the Espresso machine, starting the grueling process of making enough coffee to fuel a small army. The moment he gets into a groove, there’s a knock at the front door.
Zuko adjusts his grip on the massive corporate-sized carafe he just dragged out of the pantry, his jaw tight as the heavy mahogany doors of the penthouse echo with a loud, incredibly synchronized knock. It’s not a regular knock. It’s an evaluation. It’s a rhythmic, authoritative statement that leaves no room for hesitation.
Suki.
He lets out a long, slow breath through his nose, attempting to summon a fraction of his disciplined boardroom armor as he walks across the polished hardwood floors. His unruly, dark hair is spilling over the shoulders of his crewneck, the single hair tie at the very bottom of the strands looking like a survivor of a war zone after the marathon you put him through.
The moment his palm twists the lock and pulls the heavy door open, the quiet, luxurious peace of his penthouse is completely obliterated.
Standing at the front of the pack is Suki, looking terrifyingly bright-eyed, wearing a crisp Kyoshi Warriors athletic jacket and holding a massive clipboard like a shield. Because she's your best friend—and because her fiancé, Sokka, happens to be Zuko's absolute best friend—she treats Zuko's penthouse less like a billionaire's estate and more like an extension of her own living room. She doesn't even wait for an invitation, stepping right past him with practiced precision while checking something off her list.
"Good morning, Zuko!" Suki chirps, her voice echoing richly into the foyer with a level of volume that makes his sleep-deprived ears ring. "We're a few minutes behind our optimal stretching timeline, but the traffic near the complex was actually favorable. Where is the maid of honor? I brought the modified choreo sheets for the breakdown section."
Zuko stands there, his large frame frozen with one hand still resting on the doorknob as the rest of the team files past him in an automated, highly disciplined line. Ming offers a sleepy, sympathetic wave as she drags a cooler of ice water through the threshold, while the other girls immediately begin piling their gym bags, spare heels, and yoga mats into a neat, military-style grid right against his pristine accent wall.
"She's..." Zuko clears his throat, his voice cracking slightly into a gravelly, sleep-rough baritone that betrays exactly what he was doing until three o'clock in the morning. He pinches the bridge of his nose, staring at the sheer volume of athletic wear currently dominating his living room. "She's still asleep, Suki. It's seven-thirty-five on a Saturday."
"Asleep?" Suki stops dead in her tracks, turning on her heel to look at him with a mix of bridal betrayal and genuine amusement. She knows exactly what a week apart does to the two of you, and she glances at his unruly hair and sleep-wrinkled crewneck with a knowing, highly judgmental smirk. She lifts her wrist, tapping her watch aggressively. "But she said we had the keys for the weekend and to come whenever! 'Whenever' in competition mode means exactly zero-seven-hundred. We have sixty days, Zuko. Sixty! Sokka is already stressing over the seating chart, and if the dance isn't perfect, I'm going to lose my mind. Loose limbs and lagging are not a part of the components!"
Behind her, a couple of the dancers have already migrated toward the kitchen island, drawn in by the rich, automated purr of the Espresso machine like moths to a flame.
"Oh my god, is that a built-in espresso bar?" one of the girls whispers, her eyes wide as she stares at the multi-tiered setup. "Can we use this? I feel like I'm running on pure adrenaline and a prayer."
Zuko lets out a low, defeated huff, the last lingering trace of his unshakeable CEO persona completely evaporating as he closes the front door. He looks toward the dark hallway leading to the master bedroom, where you are still blissfully, hilariously passed out in his bed, entirely unaware of the stampede currently setting up stretching blocks in your living room.
"Go ahead," Zuko murmurs to the girls in the kitchen, waving a hand toward the coffee pods as a slow, slightly vengeful smirk begins to pull at his lips. He looks back at Suki, who is already tapping her pen against her clipboard. "Make whatever you need. I'm going to go... wake the instigator of this timeline. Trust me, she's all yours."
Zuko turns on his heel and navigates the quiet hallway, the loud, energetic chatter from the kitchen slowly fading behind him. He pushes the heavy master bedroom door open, stepping back into the dim, cool sanctuary of his bedroom.
You haven't moved an inch from the warm divot he left behind. The plush duvet is pulled all the way up to your ears, your braids fanned across his silk pillows, and one bare foot is peeking out from beneath the covers, completely dead to the world. You look peaceful, soft, and entirely smug in your sleep—a stark contrast to the absolute drill sergeant currently pacing your living room.
Zuko walks up to your side of the mattress, a slow, incredibly wicked smirk pulling at his lips. He doesn't bother being gentle.
He reaches down, grips the edge of the heavy duvet, and yanks it completely off your body in one swift motion, tossing it to the foot of the bed.
The sudden blast of the crisp, fifty-eight-degree AC hits your bare skin like a bucket of ice water. You let out a violent, high-pitched shriek of absolute betrayal, your eyes snapping open as your entire body curls into a tight, defensive ball on the mattress.
"Zuko! What the actual fuck!" you yell, your voice a raspy, sleep-ruined screech as you blindly reach around the mattress for a pillow to shield yourself. "It is freezing! Are you trying to kill me? What happened to the fifteen minutes? What happened to the gentleman who was—"
"The fifteen minutes expired about fourteen hours ago, princess," Zuko interrupts smoothly. He leans his large frame over the mattress, his hands coming down on either side of your hips, locking you into place as he looks down at your frantic, shivering form. The absolute satisfaction in his golden eyes is glowing. "And your captain is currently in my kitchen instructing my amenities on precision and eighth-counts."
You freeze, a pillow clutched tightly against your chest as your brain frantically tries to process his words. "My... what?"
"Suki," Zuko clarifies, his voice dropping into that quiet, gravelly register that means he is thoroughly enjoying your demise. He reaches down, picks up your glowing phone from the nightstand, and hovers the screen directly over your face. "Do you remember the text you sent at eleven-thirty last night? Right after you promised to perform beautifully for dessert?"
Your eyes scan the screen, landing on your own enthusiastic words: “Studio secured, baby! ...come whenever!” and then, right beneath it, Suki’s ominous, militaristic response: “Perfect. We meet at the lobby at 7:30 a.m. sharp.”
The realization hits you like a freight train. Your jaw drops, your eyes widening into saucers as a cold sweat breaks out over your skin. "Oh my God."
"Exactly," Zuko murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow, teasing line along your bare thigh, right over the tight muscles he’d masterfully unraveled just hours before. "There are highly disciplined, exceptionally loud women currently setting up a military grid against my accent wall. Ming is dragging a cooler of ice across my hardwood. And Suki is currently tapping her clipboard, wondering why her maid of honor is lagging."
You let out a pathetic, muffled groan, slamming the pillow directly over your face to drown out the reality of your situation. "No. No, no, no. Tell them I died. Tell them you put me through the mattress and I’m immobile. Tell them I caught a rare, sudden case of the avian flu and I have twenty-four hours to live."
"I'm not lying to Suki for you," Zuko chuckles roughly, his hands sliding under your waist to effortlessly hoist your dead-weight body up into a sitting position. He leans in, pressing a firm, brief kiss to your lips—tasting the faint, sweet residual of the night before—before pulling back with a mocking salute. "Sokka is already losing his mind over the seating charts, and I am not getting caught in the crossfire of her bridal wrath. Up. You made the timeline, princess. Now go dance."
You huff, a look of pure betrayal overtaking your features. “You DID put me through the mattress. You fucking put me through the bathroom wall, the kitchen counter—if I had known better I would have thought we were recreating Ming’s birthday repercussions. I–I, don’t you feel bad for your baby? Your lover? Your princess?”
Zuko’s shoulders shake as a sudden, choked-back laugh escapes him. He catches himself, pinching the bridge of his nose in a desperate bid to keep his face completely neutral, but that betraying dimple pops right into his cheek anyway. The vivid, shameless inventory of the penthouse surfaces you both thoroughly abused until three in the morning has his ears turning a faint, telltale shade of pink.
"Recreations of Ming's birthday aside," he murmurs, his deep voice carrying a rough, incredibly smug heat as he looks down at you. He doesn't pull his hands away from your waist; instead, his large palms flatten against your bare skin, his thumbs stroking slow, teasing circles right above your hip bones. "I feel an immense amount of sympathy for my princess. Truly. If it were up to me, you'd be spending the rest of the day exactly where you are, recovering from the exact... activities you just listed. God knows you earned the rest after the workout you gave me."
He leans down just an inch further, his dark hair brushing against your forehead as his gaze darkens with a sudden, warm intensity that calls back to the absolute dominance he wielded during that black-card-enforced weekend lockdown.
"But I'm a businessman, beautiful. I know how to calculate risk. And the risk of harboring a fugitive from Suki's wedding itinerary outweighs my ability to protect you right now," he states, oozing that same supreme corporate confidence that makes you melt. "Last time, you chose choice two and skipped out on the girls. If I try to enforce a choice two quarantine on you this morning, Suki will actually tear down my house and level the floor."
"You are a coward, Prince," you rasp into the pillow, though you finally lower it past your eyes to glare up at him with a thoroughly dramatic, exhausted pout. "A wealthy, athletic coward. Where is that dominant energy from last night? Use your authority to evict them."
"I am a survivor," Zuko corrects smoothly, his lips twisting into a wicked, devastatingly handsome smirk as he leans down to press one more lingering, possessive kiss to your neck. "And unlike my boardroom meetings, I cannot buy out the Kyoshi Warriors dance team. Up. You made the timeline, princess. Now go dance."
Right on cue, the muffled, sharp sound of Suki’s voice carries down the hallway from the kitchen, easily cutting through the heavy mahogany barrier of the bedroom door.
"—if she's not out here in three minutes, I'm starting the dynamic warm-ups without her, and she can do fifty high-knees as a penalty!"
Zuko raises an eyebrow, entirely amused by your instant physical flinch. "Make that two minutes. Go get 'em, maid of honor."
You slam the pillow aside, eyes narrow as you look up at your man. “I had full ambitions on dancing for you tonight, but after this performance—I’m not so sure. You meanie,” you roll away from him, immediately groaning as your body protests in full. Your muscles are tight and your back practically shatters as it releases several loud pops.
Zuko’s low, rumbling chuckle follows you across the mattress, the bed creaking slightly as he shifts his weight. Even without looking at him, you can feel the smug heat radiating off his bare chest, entirely unbothered by your empty threats.
"Is that a promise or a negotiation tactic, princess?" His voice carries that deep, husky rasp of a man who knows exactly how high the stakes are when it comes to your midnight choreography. He doesn't let you stay rolled away for long; his large, warm hand stretches across the expanse of the sheets, his palm settling flat against the center of your back just as a particularly loud pop echoes from your spine.
He winces slightly in sympathy, his thumb immediately digging into a tight knot near your shoulder blade with a practiced, firm pressure. "Because if you think a little morning betrayal is going to keep you from dancing for me later, you’ve highly underestimated my negotiating power. Be a good girl for me and get ready? So we can start your morning right, okay?"
"It’s already all wrong. I miss you. I want to cuddle and practically live in your skin," you mumble into the mattress, a pathetic, half-strangled moan slipping past your lips as his hand works out a vicious ache in your lower back. " I don’t wanna go dance for anyone that’s not you right now. And my body hurts.”
He presses a kiss right in the middle of your shoulder blades. “I know baby, but that’s just the sleep deprivation and soreness talking. The moment you go out there you’re going to be okay. Bonus points too, we’re walking in the wedding together, I’ll also be seeing this performance on the big day, so it’s practice."
You let out a long, dramatic whine, burying your face deeper into the pillow as the sheer logic of his words hits you. There is nothing more frustrating than your intensely serious, high-powered boyfriend being completely right when you just want to be a stubborn, lazy tyrant.
“You’re cheating,” you mumble, your voice muffled by the fabric. “Using the actual wedding to manipulate me into compliance.”
Zuko lets out a rough chuckle that resonates beautifully against your back. His large palm slides from your spine up to the nape of your neck, his thumb tracing the sensitive skin right beneath your hairline to soothe the tension. “It’s called standard operational efficiency, princess. Now, up. Before Suki barges in here and realizes I’m the one enabling your lagging.”
He doesn't give you a choice to slide back into the warm sheets. With a smooth, effortless lift, his strong arms hook around your waist and pull your dead-weight frame up until you’re sitting on the edge of the mattress, your bare legs dangling over the side. He reaches for the oversized t-shirt he laid out, pulling it over your head with a gentle, patient care that completely contradicts the firm boundaries he’s setting.
As your head pops through the collar, you glare at him through narrowed, sleep-heavy eyes. His dark hair is still wildly messy and he is looking down at you with a gaze so fiercely smitten it makes your chest ache.
“Two minutes,” he whispers, leaning down to press a firm, sweet kiss to your lips that leaves you wishing for him to lock the door and rot away for the day. He steps back, offering his large hand to pull you onto your shaking legs. “Go conquer the eight-counts. I’ll make sure the coffee keeps a steady flow for you and the army in the living room.”
You drag your sore, trembling body into the master bathroom, immediately grabbing your toothbrush to scrub away the sweet, heavy residuals of the night before. After splashing cold water on your face to force your heavy eyelids open, you handle the peeling process in reverse: slipping a fresh sports bra on underneath Zuko’s oversized t-shirt and squeezing your aching thighs into a tight pair of spandex shorts.
The second you step out of the hallway and into the main living space, the sheer transition of energy hits you like a brick wall.
The penthouse is completely occupied. Half the Kyoshi Warriors are scattered across your polished hardwood, executing deep, synchronized leg stretches directly in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, openly admiring the breathtaking morning skyline of the city. Over at the kitchen island, a few of the other girls are huddled around the coffee-bar, giggling as they froth milk and customize high-end lattes like they're at a five-star cafe.
"Why is everything so incredibly early?" you groan aloud, leaning heavily against the structural pillar near the entryway as you rub your eyes. "I am quite literally running on absolute empty right now."
Suki turns on her heel, her clipboard resting against her hip as a brilliant, deeply amused smirk takes over her features. She takes in your dazed expression and the slight sway in your posture, completely seeing through you. "Please. You should have known your limits, maid of honor. Don't blame the schedule for your lack of time management."
"I was a victim of circumstances and intense love," you fire back smoothly, your voice still carrying that sleepy, raspy edge. You deliberately slide your gaze across the kitchen, side-eyeing Zuko where he stands by the stove, calmly pouring steaming water over his morning tea leaves.
A chorus of knowing giggles instantly erupts from the girls stretching by the window, and Ming almost chokes on her espresso.
Zuko doesn't even lift his head from his tea, but that betraying, handsome smile pulls at his cheek as his shoulders subtly shake with a quiet chuckle. He keeps his focus entirely on his mug, completely unbothered by being publicly blamed for your physical demise.
Suki rolls her eyes dramatically, tapping her pen against the choreo sheets. "Well, if you had actually bothered to read the rest of the group thread last night instead of being a victim, you would know that the timeline was moved up for a reason. Bad weather is supposed to hit the area by two p.m. sharp. Torrential downpours and high winds—which means we need to get down to the fourth floor, run through the crybaby section, and get these girls back to their apartments before the roads get hazardous."
You let out a long, tragic sigh, your head dropping back against the pillar as the flawless logic of her scheduling leaves you completely cornered. "A weather delay. Perfect. Of course the sky is conspiring against my physical recovery."
"Exactly. So stop lagging and grab a caffeine fix before I issue a twenty-high-knee penalty," Suki directs, though her sharp eyes soften with a fond, knowing warmth as she turns back to check the alignment of the girls stretching by the glass.
You slowly untangle yourself from the pillar, your legs doing a funny, shaky little dance as you navigate the hardwood toward the kitchen island. The girls at the counter automatically part like the Red Sea, offering you a cup of freshly frothed caramel macchiato with sympathetic, highly amused smiles.
"Here you go, honorary co-captain," Ming whispers, sliding the porcelain mug into your hands. "We made it extra strong. Figure you need the performance enhancement more than any of us today."
"You have no idea," you mumble, taking a massive, desperate gulp of the sweet warmth.
As you savor the immediate rush of sugar and caffeine, a large, warm palm settles flat against the small of your back. The heat of his hand seeps instantly through the thin cotton of your oversized t-shirt, his thumb tracing a slow, grounding circle against your spine that brings a familiar, heavy shiver straight to your core.
You look up over your shoulder, your dazed, heavy-lidded gaze meeting his pretty gold eyes. He has finally abandoned his tea station, his unruly dark hair framing his sharp jawline as he stands close enough for your shoulder to brush the soft fabric of his crewneck.
"Better?" he murmurs, his deep, sleepy baritone entirely private, meant only for your ears despite the chaotic dancers currently dominating his penthouse.
"Marginally," you rasp, leaning back into his solid frame for just a brief second to steal his balance. "You're still a meanie for pulling the blanket off me, though. My back practically shattered on the walk out here."
Zuko lets out a chuckle that makes your heart swoon. He doesn't pull his hand away; instead, his fingers grip your hip beneath the hem of his shirt, giving the tight muscle a firm, knowing squeeze that carries a heavy, unmistakable promise of what's waiting for you once the storm clears.
"You're doing great, princess," he whispers against your temple, his breath hot and sweet. "Go give Suki her precision. I'll have a massive spread of carbs waiting up here the second the downpour hits."
“It’s right by the pool on that floor,” Zuko adds, his hand lingering on your hip for one last, supportive second. He glances over the sea of duffel bags and high-energy dancers, then looks back down at you. “I can walk you guys down if you want to make sure the concierge unlocked the right entry pad.”
You look up at him, your eyebrows raising as you take a slow, deliberate sip of your caramel macchiato. “Not unless you plan on carrying me right back up, Prince,” you murmur, a sleepy but dangerous little smile playing on your lips. “Because the second we get into that elevator alone, I am liable to run away with you and abandon this entire choreography block.”
Zuko lets out a low, rough rumble of a laugh, his golden eyes darkening with immediate amusement. “Understood. I'll stay up here, then. For Suki’s sake.”
"Wise choice," you tease, finally tearing yourself away from his warmth. You turn to the living room and clap your hands together, summoning every ounce of maid-of-honor authority you can muster. "Alright, Warriors! Down to the fourth floor. Follow me, it's by the pool."
The penthouse instantly erupts into a flurry of movement. The girls scoop up their gym bags, yoga mats, and customized lattes, filing into the private elevator foyer in a loud, chatting cluster.
As the elevator doors slide open, the whole group marches inside. The heavy hits of caffeine are finally starting to work their magic, circulating through everyone's veins. Slowly but surely, the entire room is coming alive. The dazed morning silence completely evaporates, replaced by the sharp, rhythmic snaps of chewing gum, the rustle of athletic track pants, and a few girls already humming the transition music of the choreography.
By the time the elevator chimes and the doors open onto the luxurious, glass-walled pool deck of the fourth floor, the energy is electric. You step out at the front of the pack, feeling the tight ache in your muscles loosen up just enough to get you into a groove. You might have been dismantled seven ways till Sunday last night, but as you catch your reflection in the glass doors of the massive, mirrored dance studio, you finally smile.
It's time to work.
The moment the heavy glass doors swing shut behind the group, the space transforms from a luxury building amenity into a high-end dance studio running on a strictly monitored corporate clock. The room is immaculate, boasting pristine, light-oak sprung floors that give just enough to protect aching joints, a massive sound system that fills the air with a low, expectant hum, and floor-to-ceiling mirrors that capture every single movement in agonizing detail.
Suki drops her clipboard onto a bench, instantly assumes her position at the front of the room, and taps her phone against the auxiliary dock.
"Alright, clear the floor of bags! We have a solid five and a half hours before the roads get completely unmanageable," Suki calls out, a competitive, fiercely determined glint in her eyes as she cranks the volume dial on the wall unit. "Which means we are running the entire first half into the ground. Formations for the breakdown section. Let's go!"
Suki turns the music up to a level that is absolutely deafening. The heavy, thumping bass rattles straight through the oak sprung floors and vibrates into the soles of your sneakers, completely consuming the room. When the music blows up like that, the rest of the world completely ceases to exist.
For the next two hours, the studio becomes an absolute vacuum of intense focus, flying hair, and sharp, military-style discipline. True to her reputation, Suki is an exceptional captain—running the block with an iron-clad structure, yet maintaining a balanced energy that keeps the room motivated. She is equally as giving with her praise as she is with her critiques, making it impossible for anyone to lose focus.
"Ming, that extension on the third eighth-count was gorgeous, beautiful lines!" Suki barks out over the thumping bass of the track, her eyes tracking the mirror reflection. "But your trailing ankle is lazy on the pivot. Snapping it in, girls! I need to hear the floor squeak on that transition!"
You find your placement in the center-left grid, the heavy caramel macchiato and the adrenaline finally locking your mind into deep muscle memory. Your thighs still burn with every deep squat, and your lower back lets out a quiet protest whenever you drop into a low roll, but the collective, driving energy of the twelve women around you pulls you entirely out of your exhaustion.
"Yes, y/n! That is the exact precision I'm talking about!" Suki praises loudly as you hit a sharp, isolated head-roll right on the beat, a wide grin breaking across her face. "Keep that exact height in your hips for the transition. But don't rush the tempo! You're anticipating the downbeat because you want to get back to Zuko. Trust the count!"
The entire room breaks into a breathless chorus of giggles, but nobody breaks formation. The synchronization is breathtaking—twelve bodies moving as a singular, powerful unit against the backdrop of the massive indoor pool just outside the glass. Suki pushes the group through run after run, stopping only to tweak a hand placement or demand more explosive energy from the back row, her enthusiasm completely infectious.
The music is so punishingly loud, the bass so thick and encompassing, that none of you even notice the sky outside the massive windows completely changing color. While you are entirely lost in the eight-counts, the morning light rapidly drains from the area, replaced by an eerie, deep-purple hue. Massive, violent sheets of torrential rain suddenly begin slamming against the thick glass panes, and a jagged, blinding flash of lightning tears across the city skyline, followed by a heavy rumble of thunder that would usually shake the room.
But inside the studio, you don't hear a single thing. The storm has rolled in significantly earlier than expected, completely drowning out under the thumping bass of the bridal choreography.
By the time the final notes of the wedding track fade out for the tenth time, every single girl is bent over, hands on their knees, chests heaving as sweat drips onto the polished oak floor.
"And... hold!" Suki commands, staring intensely at the final pose in the mirror for three agonizing seconds before her face completely softens into a bright, triumphant smile. She claps her hands together loudly. "Beautiful! Clean, sharp, and perfectly timed. That’s a wrap on the breakdown! Let’s take a five minute break, we got about two hours left."
You drop your hands to your knees, your chest heaving as the sudden drop in volume leaves your ears ringing. A collective chorus of heavy breathing, groans, and the rustle of water bottles echoes through the mirrored room.
"Oh, thank god," Ming pants, practically collapsing onto the nearest bench and fanning herself with a stray choreo sheet. "If we didn't stop, my legs were going to physically detach from my torso."
You lift the hem of your top to wipe the sweat from your forehead, your heart hammering a wild, fast rhythm against your ribs. The initial rush of the caramel macchiato has officially leveled out into pure, hard-earned adrenaline. Your body is screaming from the sheer combination of last night's marathon and today's grueling precision blocks, but the high of hitting every single transition flawlessly has a loopy, satisfied smile stuck on your face.
Because the studio is wrapped entirely in solid walls of mirrors to track your lines, you can't actually see the outside world from inside the room. A few of the girls crack open the heavy glass studio doors and jog across the hall to the communal restrooms. The second they step into the corridor, a loud gasp echoes back into the dance space.
"Uh... guys? You need to come look at this," one of the girls calls out from the hallway.
You and Suki pad over to the doorway, joining the others as they press their noses against the hallway's massive, floor-to-ceiling windows. The view of the city skyline has completely vanished. In its place is a wall of pitch-black clouds and violent, swirling sheets of water that look like they're trying to cave the building in. Lightning cracks across the dark sky in a jagged, blinding web, illuminating the streets below where water is already starting to pool heavily against the curbs.
"Whoa," Suki breathes, her eyes widening as she watches a violent flash of lightning illuminate the dark clouds. "The music was so loud I didn't even notice. The front must have accelerated. That is not a standard afternoon shower."
Right on cue, your phone vibrates in your hand. You slide your thumb across the screen to find a fresh text thread from Zuko:
The weather service just issued a flash flood warning for the downtown grid, and they're starting to close the lower parkways. The roads are going to be a hazard soon.
I’m giving you two choices, princess. Choice one: cut the practice short and bring the army back up to the penthouse right now so everyone is safe before it gets worse. Choice two: stay down there until one p.m. like you’re supposed to, but your friends aren't leaving this building until the eye passes.
A fond smile tugs at your lips as you quickly type back: We've got about two hours left on the schedule, boss. Suki just called a break but we want to finish strong. We'll ride it out down here until one.
His reply is almost instantaneous, showing his standard corporate efficiency:
Understood. I'll make sure the penthouse is ready for twelve soaked dancers at one. Next set of choices: do you want me to order catering from the steakhouse downstairs, or do you want something homemade? I can whip up a massive batch of comfort food if my princess wants a warm home cooked meal after running her eighth-counts.
Your heart does a stupid little flip at the mention of his homemade cooking. You look up from the screen, turning to Suki and the girls who are still marveling at the apocalyptic weather outside the hallway windows.
"Well, the roads are officially flooding, so nobody is leaving the building after we're done," you announce, holding up your phone. "Zuko is officially hosting the storm-out. Suki, we're good to stay until one, but he needs a executive decision from the floor: do we want catering from the luxury restaurant downstairs, or do we want him to cook us a massive, homemade comfort meal?"
The hallway immediately erupts into a flurry of excited chatter, the girls completely forgetting about the apocalyptic weather outside the glass at the mention of a billionaire-caliber food selection.
"Wait, did you say he can cook?" Ming asks, her eyes lighting up as she checks her phone. "Because after five hours of Suki's drill-sergeant formations, I need an ungodly amount of carbohydrates or I will actually perish."
"Why choose?" another dancer chimes in, leaning against the hallway wall with a grin. "If he's offering a luxury restaurant and a kitchen takeover, we should absolutely execute a tactical combination. See if the steakhouse downstairs does brick-oven pizza, and ask if he can whip up a massive batch of that spicy homemade pasta he made for your anniversary!"
Suki turns away from the window, a highly amused smirk playing on her lips as she taps her pen against her clipboard. "I heavily endorse the pasta-and-pizza alliance. If we're trapped in this building until the eye of the storm passes, I want to be entirely comatose on Zuko’s giant living room couch. Tell him we want both."
The entire group instantly champions the idea, a chorus of "Yes!" and "Carb loading!" echoing through the high-ceilinged corridor.
You laugh, shaking your head as you quickly look down at your screen to text the chef back.
The floor has voted unanimously for a compromise, your honor. They want a combination. If you can make your homemade pasta and we can order a few pizzas from the restaurant downstairs, it’s a massive win.
You hit send and look up at the girls, who are already starting to herd themselves back into the mirrored studio to maximize the rest of their rehearsal time.
Zuko’s response flashes onto your screen three seconds later, oozing his signature, effortless confidence:
Consider the executive compromise approved, princess. I’ll call down to the manager right now to secure the pizzas for one o’clock sharp, and I’ll put the water on the stove for pasta now. You have exactly two hours left on your timeline. Don't push your thighs too hard on the bridge section—I still want you walking by tonight.
Your face flushes a fierce, hot pink as you quickly slide the phone into your spandex shorts, a loopy smile taking over your features. You turn back toward the studio, the heavy, thumping bass of the wedding track already starting to boom through the glass doors as Suki resets the audio.
"Alright, ladies!" you call out, finding your spot in the center-left grid as the adrenaline hits your veins all over again. "Two hours left until a literal mountain of carbs. Let's get these eight-counts perfect!"
The last two hours are pure grit. The initial rush of caffeine completely fades, leaving the entire room relying on sheer willpower and the promise of Zuko’s carb mountain to get through the final blocks. By the time Suki finally calls for a cool-down stretch, the girls practically collapse into their seated forward folds, letting out a collective, synchronized sigh of relief as they reach for their toes.
When the rehearsal finally wraps at one o'clock sharp, you lead the thoroughly exhausted, sweaty army back into the private elevator. The ride up to the penthouse is dead quiet compared to the morning, everyone leaning heavily against the glass walls as the elevator glides up to your sanctuary.
The moment the doors slide open into the penthouse foyer, the rich, mouth-watering aroma of garlic, fresh basil, and bubbling brick-oven pizza hits everyone like a warm hug. Zuko has clearly been busy; the massive kitchen island is already stacked with luxury takeout boxes from the steakhouse downstairs, alongside a massive, steaming pot of his signature homemade pasta.
"Alright, nobody touches the food until we are clean," Suki commands, though her own stomach lets out a loud, betraying rumble. "We are soaked in sweat and the rain is getting worse."
You step forward, playing the ultimate host as you drop your gym bag. "Before anyone runs for a shower, check your gear! Does everyone have a fresh change of clothes?"
A chorus of tired "Yeahs" ripples through the group as they unzip their duffels. Only one of the dancers raises her hand with a sheepish look. "I brought clean spandex, but I totally forgot a dry shirt."
"I got you," you smile, instantly grabbing a soft, oversized flannel from the entryway coat rack and tossing it to her. "Keep it."
From there, Zuko’s sprawling penthouse becomes an absolute masterclass in logistical comfort. With four high-end bathrooms scattered across the layout, the transition from sweaty athletes to cozy houseguests is flawlessly efficient. Three of the girls claim the en-suite bathrooms in the spacious guest bedrooms, while another group forms a neat, polite line for the main hallway bathroom situated directly between the guest rooms and Zuko’s private office.
Because the studio is wrapped entirely in solid walls of mirrors, the girls didn't fully realize how brutal the weather had gotten until they exited the dance room to cross the hall. Now, safely upstairs, they can see the full force of the storm through the penthouse's panoramic glass.
Suki and Ming follow you straight toward the master suite to claim the giant walk-in steam shower and double vanities. However, you decide to claim the absolute last shift for the shower, entirely content to wait your turn while still draped in Zuko’s oversized T-shirt. Your muscles are humming with that deep, heavy post-workout exhaustion that makes every movement feel slow and entirely fluid.
Instead of resting on the couch, you occupy the kitchen space with Zuko, drawn in by the rich, savory heat of the stove and the grounding presence of your man.
Zuko is in full operational mode, his broad shoulders moving with practiced, easy grace as he sets out heavy ceramic bowls, carves up the brick-oven pizzas, and portions out massive tongs of the steaming, fragrant pasta. He’s already changed out of his morning crewneck into a soft, dark-charcoal tee that hugs his back perfectly.
You don't say a word at first. You simply glide into his space, sliding right under his arm like a puzzle piece finding its missing slot. Your arm wraps tightly around his waist, your palm flattening against his warm stomach as you anchor yourself parallel to his side. As he moves around the kitchen—stepping from the island to the stove, reaching up into the high cabinets for extra wine glasses, turning to adjust the heat on the burner—you move exactly with him, trailing his large body like a silent, utterly devoted shadow. You don't let go for a single second, your bare feet padding softly against the hardwood right in sync with his steps.
Zuko doesn't even blink at the sudden attachment. He simply adjusts his stride, a soft, incredibly fond grunt escaping him as his free hand comes down to wrap over yours, his thumb rubbing comforting, slow circles into the back of your knuckles while he checks the pasta.
When he stops at the main counter to finish plating, you shift your position, sliding entirely behind him. You wrap both of your arms around his thick waist, leaning your weight fully against his solid back. Your face presses right between his shoulder blades, inhaling the clean, familiar scent of his skin and the faint trace of tea leaves.
"Thank you," you mumble, your voice muffled against the soft cotton of his shirt as the heavy rain lashes against the windows. "Thank you for opening up your home to the girls. And for the carbs. You're the best."
Zuko pauses, his large frame relaxing entirely into your embrace. He lets out a low, deeply rumbling chuckle that vibrates beautifully right through his back and straight into your chest. He turns his head slightly, his sharp, shadowed jawline brushing against your hair as he tries to look back at you.
"You don't have to thank me for taking care of your people, princess," he murmurs, his gravelly voice dripping with that quiet, unshakeable certainty that always makes your stomach flip. He covers your interlaced hands with his own, squeezing you tightly against him. "Besides, I told you I calculate risk. Feeding an army of Kyoshi Warriors is significantly safer than facing Suki’s wrath if they all got stuck on the lower parkway."
He turns around in your arms, his large hands sliding up to frame your face, tilting your head up so his golden eyes can scan your sleepy, flush features. A tender, devastatingly pretty smile breaks across his face.
"Now go get in the shower before the food gets cold," he whispers, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. "Your spot on the couch is already secured."
Within forty-five minutes, the entire penthouse is completely transformed into a haven of ultimate relaxation. The air is filled with the clean, fresh scents of luxury body washes, expensive shampoos, and the soothing hum of hairdryers. One by one, the girls emerge clad in oversized sweatpants, plush hoodies, and thick cabin socks.
Some of the dancers stake out territory on the massive, deep-cushioned living room sofa, sprawling out to do some light, post-shower stretching on the plush area rug. Others immediately migrate back to the kitchen island, where Zuko is calmly pouring glasses of wine, water, and passing out plates of hot food to the ravenous crew.
Once you finally finish your own hot shower, scrubbing away the sweat of the studio and the residual exhaustion of the morning, you slide into your absolute softest pair of fleece sweatpants and a fresh crop top. Walking back into the main living space, you feel like a completely new person—clean, warm, and utterly hollowed out by hunger.
The living room has turned into a total sanctuary. The track lighting is dimmed low, casting a cozy, amber glow across the vast room that cuts right through the gray, stormy gloom outside.
Suki and Ming have already staked out a massive corner of the sectional, entirely draped in plush throw blankets with their plates resting precariously on their laps. The rest of the girls are scattered across the oversized area rug, leaning against floor cushions, unashamedly devouring the brick-oven pizzas and mounds of Zuko's spicy pasta.
"Oh, look who decided to join the living," Suki calls out around a mouthful of garlic crust, her strict captain persona completely dissolved into pure, post-rehearsal bliss. "Sit down before Ming steals the last piece of the margherita."
"I would never," Ming defends herself dramatically, though she is already eyeing the box. "But seriously, girl, your man is an absolute saint. I knew he was golden after the golf incident, but this pasta? Easily makes him a unicorn of an individual."
You laugh, navigating around a maze of stretched-out legs to reach the kitchen island. Zuko is leaning against the marble counter, casually sipping his tea while watching the chaotic, comfortable scene unfold in his living room. The second your eyes meet his, that warm, private glint returns to his golden gaze.
Without a word, he reaches behind him and slides a perfectly portioned, steaming plate of pasta and two slices of pizza toward you—completely saved and protected from the ravenous crowd. Next to it sits a fresh glass of your favorite white wine.
"Calculated risk management," Zuko murmurs smoothly, his deep voice carrying that low, gravelly rasp as you slide onto the barstool next to him. "I knew if I didn't hide a plate for you, you'd be fighting Suki for the leftovers."
"You are a visionary, Prince," you breathe, instantly wrapping your hand around the fork and taking a massive, incredibly satisfying bite. The rich, savory heat of his cooking hits your tongue, and you let out a low, pathetic moan of pure appreciation, your eyes closing briefly. "Oh my god. I forgive you for pulling the covers off me. This fixes everything."
Zuko lets out a low, rough chuckle, his large hand coming up to rest on the back of your neck. His thumb traces a slow, soothing line right along your hairline, his touch heavy and grounding. "Good. Because the storm radar just showed the lower parkway is officially underwater. Looks like your army is staying for dinner, too."
A collective cheer erupts from the sectional the second Zuko mentions the lower parkway being underwater, the realization dawning on everyone that no one is driving anywhere tonight.
"Well, it's official," Suki announces, sinking deeper into her pile of plush blankets with a triumphant grin. "The storm has formally commandeered the weekend. We are turning this into an executive slumber party."
The kitchen island quickly transforms into an operations desk as you pull open the deep hallway linen cabinets, tossing out an absolute mountain of oversized pillows, silk sheets, and heavy down duvets. The girls gather around, eagerly catching the bedding and designating sleeping territories across the massive living room rug and the sprawling sectional.
Zuko watches the nesting process unfold from his spot by the marble counter, setting his empty tea mug down with a calm, completely unfazed expression. He leans down, pressing a quiet, lingering kiss to your temple that carries the warm scent of his morning tea.
"I'm going to retreat to the bedroom to read and put on a documentary," he murmurs against your skin, his deep baritone completely private over the loud chatter of the girls arguing over who gets the long side of the couch. He glances at his watch, a slow, knowing smirk playing on his lips. "I'm entirely certain Sokka is going to call me within the hour to get on the game. The second he realizes Suki is trapped here for the night, he’s going to treat his newfound freedom like a national holiday."
You let out a rich, breathy laugh, your hand sliding up his chest to adjust the collar of his charcoal tee. "Go ahead, Prince. Escape while you can. I'll make sure they don't break anything expensive."
"I'm holding you to that," he chuckles softly, giving your hip one last, grounding squeeze before turning on his heel and navigating the quiet hallway toward the master suite, successfully evacuating the baseline chaos.
The second the heavy master bedroom door clicks shut, the girls look at you like apex predators who just saw the zookeeper leave.
"Alright, the landlord is gone!" Ming cheers, hopping off her floor cushion and marching straight toward the kitchen cabinets. "Y/n, where does the Prince keep the high-end liquor? Because a five-hour rehearsal followed by a flash flood warning demands top-shelf tequila."
You cackle, guiding her to the hidden panel in the wet bar where Zuko keeps the good stuff. Within ten minutes, the entire mood of the penthouse shifts from a relaxing post-workout recovery into a loud, lawless, giggly oversharing mess. The state-of-the-art surround sound speakers are dialed down to a low, rhythmic hum, completely drowned out by the sound of ice shaking, salt shakers hitting the counter, and the first round of lime-induced winces.
You drag out a massive stack of card games and board games from the living room console, dumping them into the center of the floor cushions. By shot number three, the games are completely abandoned in favor of raw, unadulterated gossip.
The living room becomes a symphony of high-pitched giggles and breathless shouting matches. The girls are sprawled across the area rug in a chaotic tangle of limbs and fleece sweatpants, their filters entirely dissolving under the influence of the tequila and the cozy, storm-locked atmosphere. Suki is mid-sentence, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten slice of margherita pizza as she loudly narrates an embarrassing story about Sokka’s complete meltdown over the wedding seating chart, prompting Ming to literally choke on her drink from laughing so hard.
Every few minutes, a loud, collective roar of laughter echoes off the floor-to-ceiling glass windows where the rain is still aggressively battering the city. From down the hall, you can faintly hear the deep, velvety, familiar cadence of Morgan Freeman’s voice narrating something educational in the master bedroom—a quiet, hilarious reminder that your very serious, intensely head-over-heels boyfriend is safely tucked away, letting you rule your kingdom.
You slide a fresh deck of cards into the center of the blanket fortress, a wicked grin on your face. It’s one of those raunchy, entirely explicit party games designed specifically to ruin friendships and strip away any remaining shards of dignity.
By the time the box flips open, the tequila has fully liquidated everyone's filters. The cozy, respectful atmosphere of the penthouse officially devolves into a lawless, loud, oversharing free-for-all.
"Alright, whoever has the next birthday draws first," Suki commands, her face flushed pink from the liquor as she leans aggressively over a giant floor cushion.
Ming snatches the first card, reading the prompt out loud before a massive, breathy cackle cuts her off. "Oh my god. 'Describe your absolute favorite sex position in vivid detail or take two shots.'" She slams the card down, pointing a finger at the group. "Look, I am not destroying my liver for modesty. We are all adults here. Honestly? If he doesn't have my legs pushed all the way back over my shoulders like a pretzel, I don't even want it."
The entire living room absolutely explodes. Several girls shriek into their throw pillows, throwing their legs into the air from sheer, hysterical laughter, while others loudly cheer and raise their glasses in solidarity.
"Pretzel style is elite, don't even play!" another dancer yells, throwing a stray piece of popcorn at Ming. "But you have to have the wedge pillow under your hips. If the angles aren't right, your lower back is cooked the next morning."
"Speaking of angles," one of the younger girls chimes in, her eyes wide and mischievous as she takes a sip straight from her solo cup, "has anyone actually successfully tried anal, or are we all just pretending it doesn't hurt like an absolute bitch?"
The question drops like a bomb, triggering a symphony of high-pitched gasps, breathless giggles, and immediate, chaotic oversharing.
"Preparation is key!" Suki shouts over the roar of the room, completely unbothered as she gestures wildly with her hands. "You can't just dive into the deep end without a warm-up, okay? It’s a tactical operation. Sokka tried to skip steps once and I almost threw him out the window of his own apartment."
"Oh my god, poor Sokka!" you cackle, your stomach physically aching from how hard you're laughing. You're sprawled out on your back against the plush rug, the sweet burn of the tequila making your entire body feel entirely floaty and relaxed.
"Don't laugh, y/n!" Ming fires back, her gaze snapping directly to you with a dangerous, knowing smirk. "You're the one co-living in a multi-million dollar sin bin. We already know Zuko looks like he handles business, but we need the data. What's the protocol in the master suite? Are we talking corporate dominance or what?"
Your face instantly turns a fierce, blinding shade of hot pink, a loud, embarrassed groan escaping your lips as you drag a silk duvet entirely over your head to hide. The girls immediately descend like wolves, tearing the blanket away as a chorus of relentless, teasing chant fills the high-ceilinged room.
"Spill it! Spill it! Spill it!"
"Look," you gasp out, trying and failing to keep a straight face as the raw honesty of the tequila takes total control of your mouth. "The tequila is winning. I have no filter, nor any shame to say that man is fucking God of some sort. Every day I discover a new reason or a new position to be thankful for that dreary cloudy bitch of a woman to have fucked up so royally that he walked away. I don’t know what mental tactics he has in his head to have a fuse that surpasses any man I’ve ever been with but just know I’m getting thoroughly devoured and beautifully fucked."
The penthouse living room practically shakes with the sheer volume of the girls' chaotic, ecstatic screaming. Suki is practically rolling on the floor, clapping her hands like a seal, while Ming looks entirely vindicated.
"I knew it!" Ming yells, raising her shot glass. "I knew the quiet, serious ones were the ones you have to watch out for!"
Down the hallway, behind the thick, sound-dampening mahogany door of the master suite, Zuko is sitting propped up against the pillows with his headset on. He’s currently mid-match, his fingers flying across the controller with practiced, intense focus as Sokka's voice chatters loudly in his ear.
But right as he guides his character around a corner, the sheer, earth-shattering volume of twelve women scream-laughing about a "dreary cloud" and "hostile takeovers" pierces directly through the heavy wood and right into his bedroom.
Zuko’s controller completely stalls. His character walks directly into a wall.
"Yo, Zuko, what are you doing? Move!" Sokka’s voice crackles impatiently through the headset. "Wait... what is that noise? Is Suki executing someone over there?"
Zuko takes a deep breath through his nose, a slow, incredibly flushed heat creeping up his neck until the tops of his ears are burning a bright, undeniable crimson. He pinches the bridge of his nose, his dark hair falling forward to shield his face as a thoroughly defeated, helpless smile tugs at his lips. He can only imagine the sheer, unfiltered filth currently exiting his princess's mouth.
"Nothing," Zuko rasps into the mic, his deep voice carrying a rough, utterly discombobulated edge as he forces his character back into motion. "Just... I don’t even know. Keep playing."
Fin
I had fun writing this one, but I have one in the works that I'm fucking obsessed with. So much so that it needs to be perfect before I share with anyone else because it's just so ahhhh? Yk? Anywhoo thanks for your patience dolls! I've been grinding at work and that mental load didnt allow for a creative triumph.
Mack💕
@calyceeee
@suyeomiiee
@daydreams-and-peace
@magnificentlyrainythunder
@mossmydarling
can you make toxic baby daddy zuko
Hi! Hi!
Will add to the list champ 🫡 ! My apologizes for the delayed response as well I've been backed up with work and all the things.
Mack💕
Hi! I really enjoy reading your Zuko x Baddie reader series. Do you know when the next part is coming? Thank you for your time and dedication towards this work work, I really appreciate it!
Hi! Hi! Hi! Thank you so much for reading! I'm 2/3rds of the way done with another installment, so I'd say Saturday :) 🫶🏾
Now what time Saturday? Couldn't say, but just know Saturday at the earliest and Sunday morning the latest.
Mack💕
Where did you go 😭
To work (aka the ghettooooo)
And I wish so badly I was joking😭. I took some time off for graduation and vacation and now I'm playing ketchup like my last name Heinz.
But literally been writing on my lunch breaks and audio scribing during my gym sessions. So theyre coming just slower than before 😩. Happy to say I have a three day weekend and I plan on just writing so be on the look out doll.
Mack 💕
Hi!! I love your fics and was wondering if you’ll be doing more Enjin x reader fics? I love the way you write Enjin especially in the Mine one shot, I haven’t found any other Enjin fic that had me giggling and kicking my feet like that😭
Hi! Hi! Hi! Thank you soo much for the love!! Literally so happy to hear it had you giggling and kicking your feet bc SAMEEE 😂!
I have like three half written and one mostly written Enjin WIP, butttt I will for sure have one uploaded Sunday and its takes place in the same realm of Trivia Princesss 🫶🏽.
Mack💕
Extra heavy on this.
I kick my feet while rereading my work. Like, I be just giggling and gasping at the way my mind created mini worlds from words. If others enjoy it, it's a bonus, but I write incredibly selfishly. It is formulated strictly on the premise that I enjoy the topic at hand. 😭
And its extra special when others get joy from it too, but I don't see it as a criteria. I suppose that's why writing on here is fun.
Which I shall be doing a series of uploads soon, I've just been slammed with work and touching grass :)
Mack💕
Happy Juneteenth to my fellow Kings, Queens, and those in-between🫶🏾! Everyday is a good day to be Black, but today feels extra special!!!
Be extra kind to yourself! And do something to make yourself smile :)
Mack 💕
Officer
Zuko x Baddie!Reader miniseries
Synopsis: What does being in a nine-month relationship and hitting balls at the nineth hole have in common? They’ll both leave you completely breathless and utterly speechless.
Tags: swearing, mentions of violence (not between the couple!), aside from that this is pure fluff and comedy.
Authors Note: This is a prelude to "Best Behavior", it can be read as a standalone but wouldn't recommend it lol. If you'd like to get into the miniseries, you can start from Best Behavior and read backwards. OR you can start with "compromised", the world is your oyster.
Not proofread!
“Yue, I’ll have to look at the dates of the proposed press releases when I’m back in the office—BUT—I want to stress that I hear you, girl. It’s a lot going on all at once. You have a big move coming up and you’re going through writer's block, and all the things in between. Take this time to focus on you and I’ll handle everything else!” you instruct, your voice full of comfort and warmth, despite the fact you’re multitasking as you do one final overview in your compact mirror.
There’s a deep sigh of relief from the other end of your speaker, followed by the quiet sound of sniffling. “Y/n, you’re the best editor to ever exist in the whole wide world and I know you got a man now, but I love you so much,” her confession is said in between sniffles and it makes you giggle.
“I love you too, Yue! You’re my favorite writer ever and I’m not just blowing smoke up your ass. Anyhow, enjoy your vacation time and we’ll chat business in two weeks?”
“Yeah, yeah. Have fun ogling at Mr. Corporate,” she squeaks out before hanging up.
You chuckle, tossing your phone into the passenger seat. After checking your lip gloss one last time in the rearview mirror, you shift the car into drive. You pull out of the side street parking spot you’d dipped into to take her call, steering back into the midday traffic.
Your destination is the new rooftop restaurant you casually mentioned to Zuko in passing just a few days ago. Next thing you know, in true, attentive Zuko fashion, he adjusts his schedule and books a lunch date for the two of you to try it out.
The car comes to a smooth halt in the bustling valet line. The restaurant sits right atop a popular hotel, adding to the heavy foot traffic around you. Gathering your purse and phone, you offer the valet attendant a bright smile as they jog over and open your door.
“Thank you!” you say, stepping out into the warm air. They hand you a small red ticket, which you slide safely into your bag, your stomach doing a little nervous flip of anticipation. Despite dating for a while now, you always get a bit nervous before seeing him in public. And it's only escalated despite the sex seal being decimated and cremated, you are in what feels like a constant state of ovulation. Wanting him. Needing him. His smallest actions and mannerisms always have you ready to drag him to the nearest flat surface and just have your way with him. He smiles at you? You’re soaked. His hand brushes against you? You’re soaked. He is drinking his tea? You’re soaked. It’s an unfamiliar cycle of just being perpetually horny for a man you find overly attractive.
You shake your head, trying to collect yourself as you make your way through the grand, marble-floored lobby of the hotel, heading straight for the sleek glass elevators designated for the rooftop. Standing inside as the elevator shoots upward, you take a second to check your reflection in the polished mirrored walls, smoothing down your outfit.
You are aiming for a chic, effortless look today. A black SKIMS capri-catsuit, an oversized cream button-up purposefully left unbuttoned, cream kitten heels, and gold accessories to complement the gold hardware on your cream shoulder bag. You look damn good. You feel damn good—even your hair is cooperating as your silk press flows like water around your shoulders.
Once the elevator doors open, you step out and take a left down a hallway that’s flanked with floor-to-ceiling mirrors and an open window in the ceiling, letting natural light brighten up the space beautifully. You wink at yourself as you pass the mirrors and reach the hostess stand.
The young woman behind the podium looks up, and her eyes instantly track your outfit from your silk press down to your cream kitten heels. There is a brief, unmistakable flicker of awe in her expression, immediately followed by a slight squint of confusion. It's that classic, elitist look, as if she's trying to calculate exactly how a baddie in a bodysuit fits into the hotel's stiff corporate vibe, or if you simply wandered onto the wrong floor.
You don't give her the satisfaction of letting her hesitate.
"Hi, good afternoon," you say smoothly, clutching your cream and gold purse a little tighter under your arm. "I'm joining a Mr. Ryu."
The confusion on the hostess's face vanishes instantly, replaced by a wide, well-trained smile. "Right this way, ma'am."
You follow her through the main dining room, and you immediately clock the vibe. It is pure, unfiltered elitist energy. The space is packed with men in expensive tailored suits and older women who look like they belong to an exclusive country club board—very Martha Stewart, very stiff money. It is the kind of room meant to make outsiders feel small, but it doesn't break your stride for a second. You belong anywhere you set your kitten heels down.
Instead of paying attention to the staring patrons, you focus on the interior design. The restaurant is stunning, heavily utilizing lush, cascading greenery against sleek gold accents that catch the natural light from the high ceilings.
The hostess guides you out onto the expansive open terrace, and the layout immediately catches your eye. The right side is bustling, packed tight with patrons chattering over lunch. The left side, however, is completely vacant. It's a ghost town.
As you follow her down the empty left path, you realize why. There, sitting at a prime table right by the glass edge overlooking the sprawling city and the dramatic, cloudy gray sky, is Zuko. He literally bought out or reserved an entire half of a rooftop just for a casual lunch date.
Hearing the signature click of your heels against the terrace flooring, he turns his head. The professional, stoic mask he usually wears melts away, a wide smile breaking across his face the second he finally sees the object of his affection standing right in front of him.
His sharp corporate jacket is draped neatly over the back of his chair, his dark hair is pulled up into a sleek, precise bun, and he smells faintly of expensive cologne and the rich tea sitting on the table.
He doesn't even let you reach the table before he stands up, stepping into your space and pulling you flush against him into a warm, grounding hug. His hand rests firmly against the small of your back, slipping underneath your button-up and right against the fabric of your one-piece.
"Hi, princess," he murmurs against your hair, his voice low and full of that heavy, exclusive affection he only ever gives to you.
You melt into him for a second, but the humor in the situation brings a smirk to your lips. Pulling back just enough to look at him, you tilt your head and look around the completely empty half of the terrace. "Mr. Zuko," you tease, your voice dripping with playful amusement. "Did you seriously clear out an entire section of a restaurant just for a quick lunch?"
Zuko doesn't even look remotely guilty. His gaze drops to your lips for a fraction of a second, sending that familiar, electric jolt straight to your core, before he meets your eyes with a shrug.
"I didn't have any plans on sharing my space with other people today," he admits easily, his thumb lightly stroking your waist. "Not when I only have you for a limited amount of time before I have to get back to the office."
You lock your arms tighter around him, straining on your tippy toes to plant a firm kiss right on his lips. “Love when you get selfish about me,” you hum against his mouth, pulling back just enough to offer an apologetic smile. “Sorry I’m late. Yue had a crisis and I’m not a good multitasker when running an intervention.”
Zuko hums, his hands resting heavily on your hips as he easily anchors you against his taller frame. A fond, knowing glint enters his eyes at the mention of your favorite writer.
“Is she alright?” he asks, his thumb tracing a slow circle against the black fabric of your catsuit. Even when he's being a possessive corporate mogul, he's inherently a protector, always genuinely caring about the people in your circle.
“She’s fine, just classic pre-move panic mixed post-break up and a splash of severe writer's block,” you explain, finally letting yourself drop back down onto the flats of your kitten heels. “I told her to take two weeks off and let me handle the chaos. But enough about work.”
You step back slightly, intentionally letting his gaze drop to fully appreciate the look you put together for him. His eyes darken instantly, taking in the way the form-fitting material hugs every single one of your curves, contrasted by the casual elegance of your unbuttoned cream shirt and the gleaming gold jewelry at your throat and ankle.
The professional man who just bought out half a rooftop is suddenly looking at you like he wants to skip lunch entirely. The intensity of his gaze makes your smile widen—mulling over your outfit for two hours was worth the brain power and stress when your man is looking at you like he’s ready to buy out the whole building for a bit more privacy for his next course of actions.
He lets out a quiet, breathy chuckle, his eyes lingering on the shimmer applied to your collarbone before he finally lets his hands slip from your hips. Stepping behind your chair, he pulls it out for you with practiced elegance. Once you get settled, he smoothly pushes it back in, leaning down to plant a soft kiss right against your cheek. His breath deepening slightly against your skin as he catches the scent of your perfume.
“You look rather stunning to say you were just handling a crisis,” he murmurs near your ear, his voice laced with a reverence that makes your legs press closer together.
You bite your lip to keep from grinning like a fool as he sits in his chair beside you. The moment he gets comfortable again, a waiter seamlessly appears from the edge of the terrace. Without a word, a crisp glass of ice water with a fresh slice of lime and a tall, condensation-beaded sparkling strawberry lemonade are placed right beside your cream and gold bag.
In true Zuko fashion, he pre-ordered your drink when he ordered his.
You pick up the sparkling lemonade, the cool glass a welcome relief against your hands as you look across the table at him. He is already reaching for his cup of hot tea, taking a slow sip while his eyes lock onto yours over the rim.
You smile around the straw, silently hoping the sweet drink will cool off the slut brewing inside you.
He just looks too enticing.
“How has the rest of your morning been?” Zuko asks, setting his tea back down on its saucer with a quiet clink. He rests his forearms on the table, leaning in slightly, completely focused on you.
“Busy,” you admit, taking another sip of your lemonade. “I had a mountain of paperwork to clear this morning before Yue called. And I have plans to go shopping with Suki after lunch.”
Zuko raises an eyebrow in silent question.
“One of the girls on her dance team is having a birthday dinner tonight,” you explain, leaning forward in your chair and resting your chin in your hand. “Suki’s trying to drag me along. I told her I might go, but honestly…” Your eyes trace the sharp line of his jawline, dropping down to the plush curve of his lips. “…I would love nothing more than to just skip it, curl up in bed, and rub my cold feet all over you instead. I do have plans on joining them for her daytime activity though! It’s golf lessons with a private instructor.”
A faint, amused smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, his dark eyes darkening with a sudden, heavy heat. But before he can comment on your favorite bedtime ritual, his smirk fades into something a bit more intense. He notices the way your gaze hasn't left his lips since you started talking.
He leans closer a fraction of an inch, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register that makes the hairs on your arms stand up. “Princess,” he murmurs, his eyes locking onto yours with demanding intensity. “Why do you keep staring at my mouth?”
His question makes you inhale sharply, and a wicked grin pulls at your lips as you lean further into his space, until the scent of his green tea and delicious cologne infiltrate your senses. “Because I want it on me…any other questions officer?”
Your raw honesty stuns him. Derailing his ability to form a quick-witted response, so you go further–obviously.
“I’m trying to act right, but you’re just looking too fine for me to think about anything other than getting a hotel room for lunch instead of an order of crab cakes,” you continue, eyes lazily scanning the menu and finding a twinge of sadness to not see him on it.
The executive who just spent his morning managing millions of dollars and hundreds of employees is completely thrown off balance by a girl in a bodysuit telling him she wants him for lunch.
You take a slow, agonizingly deliberate sip of your sparkling strawberry lemonade, watching his adam's apple bob as he swallows hard. He shakes his head, a look of amusement finally overtaking his stunned expression. “You are one of a kind, princess…and as enticing as that sounds, I’d need more than forty-five minutes with you to feel satisfied and the aftermath I have plans on leaving you in will ruin the rest of your ambitions for the day,”
A sudden, sharp heat rushes straight to your core at his words, your grip tightening around the cool glass of lemonade. Hearing the man of your dreams casually detail exactly how thoroughly he plans on ruining you, while sitting under the bright daylight of a luxury hotel terrace, makes your legs lock tightly together beneath the table.
Before you can retort, challenge, and demand he clear his schedule for the day, the waiter returns. He sets down a lovely tray of crab cakes and a basket of fresh artisanal bread.
You stare down at the perfectly golden, crisp appetizers, then slowly look back up across the table. You roll your eyes, a smug, highly amused grin pulling at your glossed lips as you rest your chin in your hand.
"Crab cakes," you tease, your voice dipping into a mix of awe and wonder. "Let me guess. You looked at the menu the exact second you arrived and knew exactly what would get me right?"
Zuko doesn't look even remotely ashamed. He picks up his linen napkin, smoothing it over his lap, a devastatingly handsome smirk playing on his plush lips as he meets your stare.
"I know what you like, princess," he admits easily, his rough, gravelly voice totally unbothered by the waiter's presence. He reaches out with a set of tongs, placing a perfect crab cake onto your small plate with practiced elegance. "So, I figured I’d save you the trouble of reading or contemplating."
You pick up your fork, flaking off a small, steaming piece of the crab cake, but your eyes never leave his. "You think you know exactly what I want, whenever I want it?"
Zuko pauses, his gold eyes a dangerous abyss as he tracks the movement of your mouth. He leans his forearms flat on the white tablecloth, closing the distance between you until the scent of your soft perfume is all he can smell.
"I know you wanted a hotel room thirty seconds ago," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, predatory rumble meant strictly for your ears. "And I know that right now, you're trying to use a fork to distract yourself from how wet you are under this table. Am I wrong?"
His blunt observation hits you like a tidal wave. It’s a completely accurate read, and it’s one he’s stated with pride in a public space. You glance quickly to the side, checking to make sure the waiter has fully vanished back into the main dining room, but the left side of the terrace remains an absolute ghost town—completely vacant, completely silent, leaving you entirely at his mercy.
"Zuko, you are no good," you whisper-hiss, your fingers tightening around the silver handle of your fork until your knuckles turn white. "We are in public."
"And I bought out half the rooftop precisely so I could say whatever I want to you, princess," he reminds you smoothly.
He doesn't look even remotely flustered. Instead, he maintains his professional composure, looking every part of a corporate mogul and old money—while he casually dissects exactly how unraveled you are beneath the tablecloth.
You clear your throat, trying to overturn the power dynamic that just put you on your ass. But the smartass in you is coming up short the longer you hold his gaze, so you concede.
“One of us needs to be an adult, so I shall take on that role. Drink your tea and lock-in, good looking,” you pause, grin widening as you break another piece of crab cake off. “Can’t have your employees thinking your girlfriend put witchcraft on you and now you’re canceling meetings when in reality you just can't get enough of me.”
Zuko pauses, his teacup halfway to his lips as your wicked response lands between you. For a fraction of a second, his striking gold eyes widen in genuine, caught-off-guard surprise before a quiet chuckle bubbles up from deep inside his chest. He shakes his head, setting the cup back onto its saucer with a soft, authoritative clink.
"Witchcraft," he repeats smoothly, his voice dropping into a register so deep it makes you hyperaware of the arousal building in your seamless underwear. The thin material never stood a chance with him, and you should have known that when picking them out. "Is that what we're calling it now, princess?"
"I mean, look at you," you mumble softly around your next bite of crab cake, utterly delighted by the fact that you managed to off-center his composure even a little bit. "You’re completely unfocused. The mogul who manages hundreds of people, is currently negotiating his entire afternoon schedule just because his girlfriend wore a catsuit to lunch."
He raises his eyebrow, head cocking to the side as he mulls over your statement. His gaze drops down to appreciate the outfit you so carefully put together for him this morning, one more time. “She wore a catsuit and then proceeded to tell me that she wants to have me for lunch…I think that would make any man in his right mind reconsider the importance of quarter three reports…and since we’re being adults all of a sudden, stop eye-fucking me so we can go back to behaving accordingly.”
You try to break his gold gaze, to force your eyes down to your plate, but the sheer, magnetic pull of his presence keeps you completely locked in place. "I am behaving accordingly," you attempt to mumble back, but your voice is entirely too soft, carrying a breathless, betraying tremor that completely ruins your defense.
"You aren't," Zuko rumbles smoothly. He takes a slow, meticulous sip of his hot green tea, his eyes never once unlocking from yours over the porcelain rim. He sets the cup back down on its saucer, leaning back into his chair with a dominant grace that makes your core clamp down in a desperate ache. "You’ve been tracking my mouth for the last ten minutes, princess. You're sitting there trying to play the adult, but you're practically counting down the hours until I can finally put my hands on you."
He’s right.You know he’s right. He knows he’s right.
And yet, your brain still works overtime to craft a comeback, to try and make you feel a semblance of control, despite when being in his presence, control is the last thing you want and it’s the last thing you even try to hold on too. You let him have it. You want him to have it…and god does he.
The words die in your throat as the scent of steak and sweet potatoes hits you. You turn your head to the side to see the waiter setting a tray down on a tray stand. Your mouth opens slightly at the sight. He’s taken care of your entire order before, so it shouldn’t surprise you to see him having done it again—and yet every time it leaves you breathless.
The waiter steps up to the table with practiced, silent professionalism, lifting the silver domes to reveal the perfectly seared steak, glistening under a rich reduction, alongside a side of fragrant, roasted sweet potatoes. The rich, savory aroma completely floods the space between you, providing a temporary shield against the suffocating sexual tension Zuko just built up.
You turn your full attention back to the man who’s made you speechless for the third time in a matter of fifteen minutes. He’s adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves, rolling them up neatly until they’re out of the danger zone for food to splash on them.
“Will you be needing anything else before I bring out dessert?” the waiter asks, setting a fresh cup of tea beside Zuko and clearing the remnants of the appetizer.
“No, thank you. We’re all set,” Zuko states smoothly. He carefully moves his own entree, a steakhouse wedge salad, to the side and lifts your plate, settling it down directly in front of himself as he calmly starts cutting your steak into bite-sized pieces.
You sit there, your chin resting back in your hand, watching the rhythmic, precise movement of his hands. The heavy silver of the steak knife glints in the overcast midday light as he slices through the tender meat with an effortless, practiced grace. He doesn’t look up immediately, completely focused on making sure every single piece is perfect for you.
The silence that stretches between you isn't heavy anymore; it's warm, and intensely intimate, completely cordoned off from the rest of the bustling rooftop.
"You're ridiculous," you murmur softly, the words slipping out before you can stop them, laced with a helpless affection that completely gives you away.
Zuko pauses for a fraction of a second, the corner of his lips twitching upward into a faint, knowing smile. He finishes the last cut, smoothly switches the plates back, and slides the perfectly prepared steak and sweet potatoes right back into your space.
"I'm attentive," he corrects smoothly, picking up his own fork and knife to tackle his wedge salad. His eyes finally lift, locking onto yours with a heavy, steady gaze over the table. "There’s a difference, princess. Now eat. You’ve had a chaotic morning, and I’m not letting you leave this table running on nothing but strawberry lemonade and adrenaline."
You pick up your fork, popping a perfectly sized, savory piece of steak into your mouth. The rich reduction melts on your tongue, and you can’t help but let out a soft, satisfied hum, intentionally holding his stare as you chew.
"Alright, fine, it’s delicious," you concede, tilting your head. "So, what does my important boyfriend have left on his to-do list today?"
“Important,” he muses. A smile pulling at his cheeks as he watches you happily wiggle in your chair while eating. Very reminiscent of the morning you sat at his island eating greasy fries to fight against a raging hangover all those months ago.
You nod, “You know, I was talking to my mom on the phone and she asked what you did for work—imagine her horror when I had no idea. I told her I assume it’s something important and grand based on your lifestyle and then she asked if you were a sugar baby…I–I” your words get lost as you watch his face turn into one of absolute horror.
Your laughter rings out clear and bright across the vacant left side of the terrace, a sharp, joyful sound that completely shatters the teasing aura Zuko had been cultivating just moments before. You cover your mouth with your hand, your shoulders shaking helplessly as you watch the utter, catastrophic meltdown of his dignity.
Zuko sits entirely frozen, his fork hovering an inch above his wedge salad. For three agonizing seconds, the great corporate mogul looks like he’s just been short-circuited. His eyes are wide, blinking in sheer, unadulterated disbelief as his brain desperately tries to process the phrase sugar baby.
"A... what?" he finally chokes out, his gravelly voice cracking slightly in a rare, beautiful display of complete vulnerability.
"A sugar baby!" you gasp out between giggles, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of your eye, completely delighted by how thoroughly you've just broken him. "She said, and I quote, 'Y/n, if he doesn't have a real job and he's just spending some older woman's inheritance, you need to find a man with a steady tax bracket.'"
Zuko slowly lowers his fork, the silver clicking sharply against his plate. The faint crimson flush of pure embarrassment creeps up his tanned neck, staining his cheeks as he glares at you across the white tablecloth. He adjusts the cuffs of his shirt, trying and failing to summon the terrifying executive presence that usually commands entire boardrooms.
"A steady tax bracket?" he repeats, his voice a dangerous, deeply offended rumble that only makes you laugh harder. He leans across the table, his gold eyes blazing with a mix of utter exasperation and helpless affection. "Princess, I am the steady tax bracket. I manage a global portfolio. My family legacy built half the infrastructure in this district alone, don’t even get me started on the global network I oversee. I do not... I am not anyone's sugar baby."
"I know, I know!" you tease, taking another delighted sip of your strawberry lemonade to calm your burning chest. You lean forward, offering him a highly unprincipled, wicked wink. "But honestly, Zuko? With that face, those lips, and the way you look in a tailored suit... if the whole executive thing doesn't pan out, you definitely have the credentials for it. I might even sponsor you myself."
Zuko’s jaw sets into a rock-hard line, but the dangerous, predatory smirk slowly returns to his full lips, his eyes darkening into that familiar hue that promises trouble.
"Sponsor me?" he murmurs smoothly, he hooks his foot to the leg of your chair, skillfully pulling you in closer until the arm rest of your chair grazes his own. He leans in until the scent of his expensive cologne completely replaces the crisp afternoon air, his rough voice a low, husky promise meant strictly for your ears. ""You want to talk about sponsorships, princess? I could fund your entire life, your favorite writer's publishing house, and your next ten shopping sprees with Suki right now, and it wouldn't even shift a single comma in my bank account."
Your mouth drops. Eyes wide. Thoughts empty.
You’re aware that he’s well off. Aware that everything he owns, every room he enters, it’s because of his hard work. The multiple degrees in his home office support that notion. Financially though, you just kind of put him in the rich category, but maybe he belongs in the wealthy one.
You blink, staring at him as the sheer magnitude of his words hangs in the warm afternoon air. The playful, smart-aleck retort you had queued up completely evaporates, leaving you utterly speechless under his steady, golden gaze. For the first time all lunch, you are entirely out of cards to play. He slowly reaches over, his large, warm hand flat against the white tablecloth as he uses two fingers to gently tap the underside of your jaw, nudging your mouth closed. The lingering heat of his touch against your skin feels like a brand, sending a sharp, electric jolt straight down to your clit.
"Now," Zuko rumbles, leaning back into his chair with a slow, dominant grace that commands the entire empty side of the terrace. He picks up his fork, casually gesturing to your plate. "Eat your steak. Because if you keep staring at me with your thoughts completely empty like that, I’m going to skip the corporate formalities, sign the check, and handle the rest of our afternoon in the penthouse suite of this hotel."
You swallow hard, finally forcing your hands to pick up your fork again. If you don't look busy, he’s actually going to drag you to the lobby, and your underwear cannot take any more teasing.
You stab a piece of perfectly roasted sweet potato, but instead of eating it right away, you point the fork slightly in his direction, your eyes narrowing as a newfound curiosity breaks through your shock.
"Okay, financial flex aside," you start, your voice returning with a slightly breathless, velvety quality. "What do you actually do all day in that high-rise office, Zuko? I know it's a global asset firm, but give me the day-to-day. Because right now, I’m picturing a mix of shadow operations and absolute corporate villainy."
The predatory heat in his eyes softens just a fraction into a calm, fiercely intelligent glint. He loves when you ask about his world, especially when you're genuinely trying to look past the intimidating luxury of it all.
"It's a mix of a few things, princess," he starts, leaning his forearms back on the table, completely closing the distance between you again. "Mainly, it’s tech acquisitions and venture capital expansion. If a massive tech start-up or an emerging AI infrastructure firm needs a billion dollars to go global, they come to my team. I dissect their entire operations, find the flaws, and rewrite their future. We acquire the companies that have potential, restructure them from the ground up, and absorb them into our portfolio."
He pauses, a slow, incredibly sharp smirk playing on his lips as he watches you try to process the sheer scale of what he casually calls a "day job."
"And when I'm not doing that? I'm handling sovereign wealth funds and risk management," he continues smoothly, as his eyes lazily trace the line of your collarbone. "Essentially, foreign governments and massive old-money estates trust my firm to invest and protect their generational wealth. I sit in boardrooms and make decisions that dictate market trends before the public even knows they're happening. It’s high-stakes, highly volatile, and incredibly demanding."
He tilts his head, his gold eyes locking back onto yours with a sudden, devastatingly heavy warmth. "But it doesn't compare to the risk management I have to perform when my girlfriend shows up to lunch in a catsuit."
You roll your eyes playfully at his comment, your free hand slipping from the table to his thigh now that you’re close enough. “So... tech acquisitions, global asset restructuring, and keeping foreign governments rich. Got it,” you pause gaze shifting to the open skies and then back to him. “ Is it bad of me to say that I’m happy to hear that when you see me you actually consider risking it all?”
Zuko’s breath catches, the steady, rhythmic movement of his hands instantly halting at your soft confession. Your palm is warm against the heavy fabric of his trousers, but it's your words that completely throw him off balance. For a long, unblinking moment, the powerful executive who dictates market trends for a living looks completely defenseless.
He doesn't answer you right away. He just stares at you, his burning gold eyes searching your face, tracing the curve of your lips, before snapping back to hold your gaze with a heavy, unblinking gravity. “No,” he responds softly. His large, warm palm slides down off the table, his fingers spreading wide as he firmly covers your hand on his thigh, squeezing your fingers with a possessive, deeply grateful certainty.
Your smile grows, practically taking over your features as you beam at him. “Good, and just to be clear, I too look at you and consider risking it all. Hell, on my walk up here I had to remind myself we were going to be in public, you have work to return to, I have errands to run and it was like a mantra in my head because if I let myself forget that—I would be slipping underneath this table cloth and getting active–BUT–I’m a lady and I should be able to hold myself back despite dating a GQ model…A prince of a man, ugh…it’s hard being a functional member of society,”
Zuko just stares at you, his hand still firmly clamping yours against his thigh, completely frozen by the absolute whirlwind of your words. For a second, his brain has to catch up to everything you just admitted, but as the image of you slipping under the tablecloth fully registers, a dark, dangerous flush creeps up his neck.
A rich laugh suddenly rumbles from deep inside his chest—a sound so uninhibited and genuine it completely transforms his features.
"Active, princess?" he echoes smoothly, his gold eyes practically sparkling with absolute amusement and a terrifyingly heavy dose of affection. “Is that the modern term for it now? And here I thought you were just enjoying a nice, civilized lunch on a luxury terrace. Meanwhile, you're sitting beside me having a full-blown internal crisis. "
You scoff softly and tilt your head in pure amusement. “Mmm…it’s one word for it. And the word crisis feels too miniscule. My entire control console does a system reboot every time I look at you. Don’t even get me started on when you start talking, it glitches like I’m in the matrix and I have to remind myself that I have self-control and human decency. Which brings me to the next point of discussion: while I inadvertently gas you up, does your brain not malfunction in my presence? Or am I just overly going for you?”
Zuko mirrors your head tilt. His fingers wrap tighter around your hand instinctively as your line of questioning pivots once again. "Overly going for me?" Zuko repeats, mind seemingly reeling as he tries to decode the language you’re throwing at him.
“Yeah, like I’m just excessively eager or—”
“No,” he states confidently, “not at all.”
The absolute certainty in his voice completely halts your train of thought, leaving you blinking at him as the sheer magnitude of his denial settles over the table.
"If anything," Zuko states, his rough voice dipping into a register so deep it feels like a physical pull to your core. "It's the exact opposite."
He lets go of your hand under the table, bringing his palm back above the surface to lean his forearms flat on the linen tablecloth, entirely crowding your space until his broad shoulders block out the rest of the terrace.
"You want to talk about your control console glitching?" he murmurs smoothly, a small, dangerous, and breathtakingly handsome smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Princess, I have spent the last twenty minutes trying to recall the exact financial metrics for a global acquisition proposal I am supposed to spearhead at two o'clock. And do you know what my brain keeps giving me instead?"
Your breath catches in your throat, your fingers tightening around the silver handle of your fork as you shake your head slightly, completely transfixed.
"It gives me the memory of how tight you were this morning," Zuko confesses bluntly, his eyes darkening into an absolute abyss as he tracks the sudden, erratic pulse drumming against the skin of your neck. "It gives me the sound of your voice when you're undone, and the way you look right now, sitting across from me in a public restaurant wearing a catsuit and telling me you want to go feral under the table."
Your thoughts completely empty all over again under his ruthless honesty.
"So no, you aren't excessively eager," he murmurs, his thumb reaching across the small distance to trace the line of your jaw, his skin warm and possessively firm. "My brain malfunctions the second you cross my line of sight, Y/n. But the difference between you and me, princess, is that I am highly practiced at operating under a crisis. Now, dessert is on its way and we have six minutes left before you need to head to the valet and I need to head to a boardroom.”
You stare at him, your skin tingling where his thumb rests against your jawline, completely captivated by the definitive boundary he just drew. The seamless pivot back to the clock—reminding you that you only have six minutes left—sends a thrilling, frantic spike of adrenaline straight through you. He just threw your entire internal system into a tailspin, and now he's casually keeping you on schedule like the executive he is.
Before you can even pull together a response, the waiter reappears, cutting through the heavy air with a perfectly timed arrival. He sets down a sleek porcelain plate featuring a flawless, decadent chocolate lava cake, its center slightly molten and dusted with a delicate layer of powdered sugar, alongside two small dessert forks.
"The signature molten chocolate cake to share," the waiter announces warmly. "Can I secure anything else for you both before the bill?"
"Just the check, thank you," Zuko answers effortlessly. His voice is perfectly modulated, completely masking the fact that he just spent the last two minutes describing exactly how unraveled you make him.
The waiter bows his head and slips away to fetch the black leather presenter, leaving the two of you alone with the steaming dessert.
You look down at the rich chocolate, then back up at Zuko, a small, highly amused grin managing to fight its way through your dazed expression. You pick up one of the small silver forks, nudging your chair just an inch closer so your shoulder lightly brushes his.
"Six minutes," you repeat, a playful challenge bleeding into your tone as you slice off a small, rich piece of the cake. "You really are a stickler for a timeline.. Are you expecting me to eat a luxury dessert at lightning speed?"
Zuko picks up his own fork, a glint of pure satisfaction in his gold eyes as he watches you bounce back from his intense confession. "I'm expecting you to enjoy your afternoon with Suki and the girls without being late because of me," he counters smoothly, using his fork to claim a piece of the cake. "Consider it high-efficiency pampering. We have just enough time to share this, secure your car from the valet, and part ways like civilized adults."
"Civilized," you mumble around a bite of the rich, warm chocolate, the sweet flavor melting on your tongue. You lean in slightly, dropping your voice into a wicked whisper. "There is absolutely nothing civilized about what you're thinking right now."
He doesn't deny it. Instead, he places his fork down as the waiter slides the check onto the edge of the table. Zuko slips his black card into the leather folder without even looking at it, handing it right back to the staff with practiced elegance.
“If I told you what I was thinking about beautiful, you’d ask me if I have plans on shooting an adult movie with you,” he jests, resting his hand on your thigh.
You instantly choke on your next bite of chocolate cake, a startled, breathless laugh escaping your throat as your cheeks burn. You frantically grab your glass of water, taking a fast gulp to save yourself while your eyes stretch wide in absolute shock.
"Zuko!" you squeak, glancing around the empty terrace as if the nonexistent patrons could hear his utterly lawless mouth.
His large hand firmly squeezes your thigh under the tablecloth, his thumb rubbing a deliberate, burning circle into the fabric of your one-piece. He doesn't look even remotely ashamed of himself. Instead, he simply watches your chaotic reaction with a relaxed, immensely proud smile playing on his features.
"I'm just being honest, princess," he murmurs smoothly, checking his watch with effortless corporate grace. 1:50 PM.
"I think our honesty is what’s getting one another in trouble,” you grumble, wiping your mouth free of any chocolate remnants as the waiter delivers the receipt in that familiar leather book.
He slips two hundred dollar bills behind the receipt with his signature before looking up and addressing your side comment.
"Trouble implies that I'm trying to avoid the consequences," Zuko counters smoothly, his eyes locking onto yours with a terrifyingly confident intensity. He shuts the leather book with a decisive snap and slides it to the edge of the table. "I'm not. If anything, I am actively counting down the minutes until I can face them."
You exhale slowly at his remark, standing up carefully as he helps you up. He folds his jacket over his forearm and wraps an arm around your waist guiding the both of you to the main dining room.
“The left side of the terrace was closed for a private party madam, but if you give us just a minute we can have it set up for you and your party of three.”
The words faintly register in your ears as you allow Zuko to lead you to the opposite end of the dining room, completely parallel to the entrance you took. The attendant holds the elevator open, wishing the both of you a good day as it closes and shoots down to the lobby. Unlike the first elevator, this one is entirely see-through, allowing you to peer outside and see the hustle and bustle below.
You watch with utter fascination, and he watches you just the same.
The busy world below moves in fast-forward behind the glass, a dizzying blur of yellow cabs, busy crosswalks, and tiny figures rushing along the hot pavement. It’s a striking contrast to the quiet, untouchable bubble Zuko built for you up on that roof, and the visual has you completely transfixed.
But as you press close to the glass, you can feel the profound, unblinking weight of his stare burning into the side of your face.
You turn your head slightly, catching his reflection in the transparent pane before looking at him directly. He isn't looking out at the city skyline. He isn't checking his watch, and he isn't reviewing his mental notes for his two o'clock meeting. His gold eyes are fixed entirely on you, tracking the soft curve of your lips and the fascinated gleam in your eyes with a quiet, consuming hunger.
"What?" you ask, a small, breathless smile pulling at your lips as his arm tightens just a fraction more around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest.
"Nothing," Zuko says, his deep voice carrying right through you as the elevator smoothly drops past the mid-level floors. He rests his chin lazily against the crown of your head, his gaze never breaking from yours in the glass. "Just watching you."
You hum, “I have a comment, but I’m going to hold back due to wanting to respect the fact you seem to have a rather important meeting to run and if I say what I want to say—it will off center you.”
Zuko lets out a short, highly amused breath against your hair, his grip tightening around your waist until you are entirely pinned against his solid chest. The transparent elevator car flies past the upper third of the building, but his focus remains strictly locked onto your reflection in the glass.
"You think you haven't off-centered me already?" he asks, a knowing, lethal smile playing on his lips. "Princess, my focus was entirely shot the second you sat across from me at that table. If you have something to say, say it. Don't hide behind human decency now."
You tilt your head back against his shoulder, looking up at him through your lashes with a thoroughly unprincipled, wicked gleam in your eyes. “Your attention is the reason I’m soaked now…”
Without giving him a chance to process the confession, you turn completely in his hold. You wrap your fingers around his large palm, guiding his hand down past your waist until it rests firmly on your hip, hidden from any outside view by the heavy drape of your oversized layer.
Zuko holds your gaze, pupils dilated so far that the gold of his irises are almost gone. He moves with effortless ease, sliding his palm over the curve of your ass, down the back of your thigh, and slipping his long fingers right in between your legs to press firmly against the center of your frustration.
Your breath hitches into a sharp, silent gasp, your hands flying to his broad shoulders for balance as the undeniable heat of your underwear dampens his touch right through the thin fabric of your one-piece. He doesn't caress you. He simply presses his fingers flat against your core, confirming the absolute truth of your words while his eyes burn a hole straight through you.
Underneath his hand, your pulse is thudding frantically, completely at his mercy.
"Jesus, princess," Zuko strains out, his voice tight, carrying a demanding edge that tells you you've pushed him past the absolute point of no return. His jaw is clenched so hard the muscle ticks violently, his pristine corporate armor shattering into absolute dust right there in the descending car.
And as he presses a little harder, you bury your face in his chest to muffle the soft moan bubbling in your throat. His touch is slow and controlled, dragging his fingers through the mess he's made of you with nothing but pride in his eyes.
A soft chime echoes through the elevator, signaling the arrival to the lobby.
Zuko doesn't flinch. He keeps his hand firmly wedged between your thighs for two more agonizing seconds, his thumb giving you one last heavy, deliberate swipe that leaves you entirely breathless and trembling on your heels.
You exhale shakily, lowering your hands till they rest on his waist. “I’m going to call on him soon too, I don’t have time to run home and change,” you note, giving his waist a squeeze and stepping back slightly to put some distance between you and the delectable scent radiating off of him. “Guess that just means I get to buy a whole new outfit,” you muse, trying to regather yourself as the heavy doors slide open.
Zuko lets out a distinct, ragged breath, his hands sliding to his pockets as he forces his posture back into that of a disciplined, unbothered executive. But the dark, dangerous flush still lingering on his neck completely betrays him. His eyes track the slight sway of your hips as you step out onto the polished marble floor of the grand lobby, his gaze heavy with an intense, possessive focus.
"A whole new outfit," he repeats, his deep voice carrying a slightly rough, distracted quality as he falls into step beside you. A slow, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his lips. "Make sure you charge it to my card, princess. Consider it an investment in my evening entertainment."
You clasp your hand around his arm as he matches your stride. “ I leave your card at home, those are emergency funds,” you note.
"Emergency funds," Zuko repeats, the amusement in his voice sharpening into something distinctly proud. He slips his hand out of his pocket and placd it on your hip. "Buying a replacement outfit because I ruined your current one sounds like an emergency to me, Y/n."
The heavy glass doors glide open, and the thick afternoon heat immediately rolls over you, a stark contrast to the chilled air of the hotel lobby. The valet spots the two of you, his posture straightening instantly at the sight of Zuko. He holds the driver's side door of your idling car wide open, keeping his eyes politely trained ahead to give you two a modicum of privacy.
Zuko brings your walking pace to a halt right by the hood of the car, turning his frame to block you from the view of the valet and the passing traffic. He reaches into his pocket, his fingers emerging with a spare platinum card he always keeps on hand. Without a word, he slides it directly into the small, sleek handbag slung over your shoulder, his palm lingering on the leather for an authoritative second.
"Now it's an emergency fund you actually have on you," he states, his gold eyes locking onto yours with an absolute, non-negotiable intensity. "Use it. Buy whatever you want, take Suki wherever she wants to go, and don't think twice about the total."
You roll your eyes, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. “You can’t keep spoiling me like this,” you grumble half heartedily. “It’s going to ruin my independence as a strong black woman…”
“Mmm, I wouldn’t say that. I’d say, I’m allowing my beautiful girlfriend to exude her independence by being unlimited in whatever she wants to do," he counters smoothly, his tongue clicking faintly in disapproval at your grumbling. "There is a difference, princess. Besides, your independence is exactly what caught my attention in the first place. A piece of plastic isn't going to change that."
A soft, defeated laugh slips past your lips. It's completely impossible to argue with a man who uses high-level corporate logic to justify throwing ungodly amounts of money at you.
"You always have an answer for everything, don't you?" you muse, tilting your head up to meet his fierce, golden gaze.
"Only when it comes to getting my way," Zuko replies, a sharp, knowing smirk gracing his lips. He closes the remaining distance between you. His warm hand catches your jaw, his fingers tilting your face up as he leans down and seals his lips over yours.
It isn't a polite, public goodbye. It’s a thorough kiss that completely drives the breath from your lungs, his tongue sliding against yours just enough to remind you exactly who you belong to. The heat of the afternoon sun has nothing on the absolute fire rushing through your veins as he anchors you against him right there on the valet curb, utterly unbothered by anyone who might be watching.
When he finally pulls back, his thumb swipes lazily across your bottom lip, his gold eyes dark with desire.
You let out a shaky, airy laugh, your hands resting against his chest as you try to steady your trembling knees.
"You need to get in your elevator and go to your high-stakes meeting right now, Prince," you warn, your voice a velvety, dangerous murmur as you glance back at your idling car. "Because if you stay out here for even one more second, I am going to throw you into my backseat and make you retire for the rest of the day."
A clear, incredibly proud smirk breaks across Zuko’s lips, his eyes flashing with absolute delight at the threat. He takes a single step back, reluctantly letting his hand slide away from your skin, though his gaze remains pinned to you.
"Go buy your outfit, princess," he states, his voice carrying a definitive promise as he finally turns back toward the cool glass doors of the hotel entrance. "Enjoy the dinner party. But don't think for a second you're off the hook just because you have plans tonight. I'll see you later."
You watch him walk away for a fraction of a second, admiring the effortless, commanding way he moves in his tailored suit, before turning to slide into the driver's seat of your car. As you pull away from the curb, your heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, your skin still tingling from his touch. You reach over to check your bag, your fingers brushing against the cold platinum card he slipped inside.
Surely this will placate Suki’s anger for you being fifteen minutes behind schedule.
The air inside the luxury boutique is crisp, smelling of expensive lavender and high-end silk, a massive contrast to the thick summer heat cooking the city sidewalks outside.
Suki is already standing near a rack of designer cocktail dresses, a manicured hand resting on her hip as she checks her watch. The second you slide through the glass entrance, her eyes lock onto you with a mock-stern expression.
"Fifteen minutes, pumpkin," Suki chides, a knowing grin instantly cracking her disciplined exterior. "Fifteen minutes of my life spent hiding from the sales associates who keep trying to hand me complimentary champagne. Care to explain what corporate emergency kept you?"
You don't say a word. Instead, you unzip your compact handbag, slide your fingers inside, and casually pull out the sleek, matte-black platinum card Zuko just forced into your possession. You hold it up between your index and middle finger, letting the gold lettering catch the boutique’s track lighting.
Suki’s jaw literally drops. She stares at the card, then looks up at your face, a dramatic gasp escaping her lips.
"Oh, shut up," Suki squeals, instantly lunging forward to inspect the plastic. "He did not. The Prince handed over the unlimited black card? Girl, what did you do to that man at lunch?"
"Consider it an emergency investment," you tease, a triumphant smile pulling at your lips as you guide her toward the back of the store where the dressing rooms are located. You lower your voice into a confidential whisper. "And honestly, it is an emergency. I can't even take off my oversized shirt right now because my current outfit is completely ruined underneath. Zuko made sure of that in the elevator."
Suki lets out a loud, chaotic cackle that echoes off the boutique's marble floors. " You’re a fiend for that man girl, I love it. I live for it,” she starts flipping through the garment bags with a purpose.
“I’m down bad Suki, real down bad. Nine months in and I feel like I’m floating on air and walking on sunshine. It’s sick work he’s doing on me. Could be hoodoo, could be voodoo, could just be real out of this world dick, but I can’t confirm or deny just yet.”
"Alright, so our group golf lesson starts around 4:30, which gives us enough time to find dresses for tonight and cute gold sets. I’m aiming to look like Ralph Lauren, old money, pretty bitch, kind of vibe. As for Ming’s birthday dinner, we are heading to The Jade Pavilion," Suki announces, holding a stunning satin midi-dress up to your frame to gauge the fit. "Ming said she wanted high-end luxury vibes, so everyone is going to be dressed to absolute perfection. I think this place just opened its reservation books last month."
A sudden wave of recognition hits you, a dazed, incredibly fond smile taking over your features.
"Wait, The Jade Pavilion?" you repeat, your fingers tracing the smooth fabric of the dress Suki is holding. "Oh, you are going to love it, Su. I've actually been there with Zuko for a date night recently."
Suki halts her browsing, her eyebrows shooting up with immense curiosity. "Ooh, give me the layout. Is it actually worth the hype?"
"It’s incredible," you note, your inner confidence firmly in the driver's seat as you remember the layout. "The interior is gorgeous, but the real highlight is out back. They have an absolute masterpiece of a dance floor set up right in the backyard under the stars, and the main bar out there looks exactly like a luxury cabana. It feels like a private tropical estate hidden right in the middle of the city."
"A backyard dance floor and a cabana bar?" Suki repeats, her eyes sparkling with unbridled excitement. "Oh, the girls are going to love that! We must find something we can move and groove in, while looking fucking stunning. Ming is going to be in Jade, so we were thinking black with jade accessories? What do you think?”
You nod enthusiastically, moving over to the rack holding a majority of black dresses. “Sounds amazing. Zuko actually just bought me a pair of jade earrings and a necklace during Lunar New Year, and I’ve been waiting for another occasion to wear them.”
“Oh my goodness, yes! You looked so stunning wearing it for your job’s banquet!” She squeals, practically vibrating where she stands at how much fun and how amazing you all will be looking tonight.
You pull a spectacular black silk slip dress from the rack, admiring the way the premium fabric glides over your fingers. But as you tilt your head to gauge the neckline, a sudden, highly practical realization hits your brain. You freeze, your expression turning distinctly sheepish as you look over at your best friend.
"Su, hold on," you say, clearing your throat as you carefully hang the dress back onto the bronze rack. "We have a slight logistical crisis to handle before I can even think about entering that fitting room."
Suki tilts her head, her manicured fingers pausing on a velvet hanger. "What's wrong, pumpkin? Found a dress that’s cute but doesn’t match the vibe?"
"No," you whisper, stepping closer into her space and dropping your voice into an entirely confidential register. "I can't try on a thousand-dollar silk dress right now. It would be dubious of me to try on clothes in this state... My undergarments are thoroughly soaked through, Suki. Zuko didn't just talk a big game in the elevator; his hand was wedged between my legs for half the ride down to the lobby."
Suki freezes for one spectacular second before letting out a loud, chaotic screech of laughter.
"Oh my god!" she squeals, slapping her hand over her mouth to try and control her unvarnished glee. "You are an absolute beast of a woman! A literal public hazard! Y’all have to do better as a duo. Come on."
She hooks her arm firmly through yours, completely abandoning the dress rack and pivoting the two of you toward the door that leads to an entirely different side of the high-end shopping store.
The boutique's private intimates salon is a sanctuary of quiet luxury, lined with satin-covered hangers holding delicate pieces of French lace and premium silk. Suki navigates the displays with the speed and precision of a woman on a military mission, matching a seamless black silk undergarment set with a chic, ultra-expensive casual daytime outfit to replace your ruined one-piece entirely.
"If we are doing a black dress with your Lunar New Year jade jewelry tonight, the foundation needs to match the blueprint," Suki declares, tossing the selections into your arms. "And you need a fresh outfit to wear for the rest of our shopping trip anyway. This is elite. Go change right now."
You take the fresh garments from her, slipping into the large, mirrored private stall. The relief of shedding the damp, ruined fabric you’ve been wearing since lunch is immediate. You step into the fresh, smooth silk undergarments and slide into a pristine, beautifully tailored new daytime outfit. The premium material flows beautifully around you, completely freeing you from the aftermath of the elevator encounter.
The sales associate gracefully handles the dilemma, wrapping your ruined one-piece into a discreet, beautifully scented designer shopping bag without a single look of judgment.
You step out of the stall, completely refreshed, and march straight to the register where Suki is already waiting with an incredibly devious grin stretching across her face holding two of your bags in her hand. One filled with a few pieces that cater to Zuko’s evening entertainment and the other the remnants of your previously stunning outfit.
You unzip your handbag, slide Zuko's sleek, matte-black corporate card out, and hand it to the cashier with practiced elegance.
Click. The card swipes seamlessly through the register, the small screen flashing a quiet confirmation of the successful transaction for both the luxury undergarments and the brand-new replacement outfit.
You look down at your phone to check the time. 2:05 PM. Zuko's global acquisition proposal meeting started exactly five minutes ago.
"You do realize what you just accomplished, right?" Suki whispers, leaning her elbow on the marble counter as the cashier packs your fresh purchase into a glossy bag. Her eyes are dancing with pure, unadulterated entertainment. "That man is probably sitting in some boring ass meeting and just received a real time alert that his card was used at a boutique known for their lingerie. How do you think he’s holding up?”
A thoroughly triumphant grin spreads across your face as you slide the black card back into its secure slot in your wallet. The mental image of his reaction is absolute euphoria. His iron-clad armor is undoubtedly fracturing in front of his entire board of directors right now, his mind instantly racing to figure out exactly what you just bought to replace the outfit he ruined.
"He told me his brain malfunctions the second I cross his line of sight," you drawl smoothly, grabbing the shopping bag from the counter with a rascally twinkle in your eyes. "I can only imagine how his brain will stutter through processing this notification, but he insisted and I’m a good listener. Now that the emergency is solved... let's go find that dress for Ming's dinner and cute golf wear—which we will have to find at one of the stores across the street."
The rest of the shopping spree is a mix of chaos and fun, all bundled into an hour-and-a-half time block. The two of you hop from boutiques with price tags y’all would never entertain in a normal setting, to your go-to places when in need of a good outfit in a pinch. It’s a beautiful balance of girls gone wild and girls on a mission.
Time seems to work in your favor as you both manage to leave an exact one-hour window for getting ready—that doesn’t include travel time. Your apartment becomes a whirlwind of showers, make-up, and getting-ready music.
When you both finally emerge from your respective styling sessions, the "old money, pretty bitch" country club vision is fully realized.
You’ve completely stepped into the aesthetic. You’re wearing a crisp, white tennis skirt that sways effortlessly with every sway of your hips when you walk, paired with a sleeveless, modestly cropped v-neck top. To tie the whole Ralph Lauren look together, you’ve draped a soft pastel-pink sweater casually over your shoulders, the sleeves loosely knotted at your chest.
Suki steps out right behind you, looking equally elite but in a silhouette that perfectly fits her vibe. She’s opted for a athletic white pencil skirt that hugs her frame, paired with a sleeveless, high mock-neck cream top. Draped over her shoulders is a vibrant red sweater featuring a cream bear knitted right on the back, adding the perfect touch of high-society playfulness to her clean look.
"Oh, the country club is absolutely not ready for us," Suki declares, checking her reflection in your hallway mirror with a shit-eating grin.
You laugh, grabbing your bag and keys as you head for the door. "For sure, may not know what we’re doing, but at least we look damn good."
The drive is relatively smooth as you head to the wealthy side of the downtown district, coasting past Saks Fifth Avenue, past the luxury hotels, and through the financial district. The country club sits right at the edge of the harbor, overlooking the water.
You valet park the car, smoothly slipping the red ticket safely into your purse beside Zuko's black card. Walking inside, you and Suki enter the grand lobby of the country club and immediately spot Ming and the rest of the girls. The second they clock your outfits, the entire group erupts into a flurry of squeals and excitement, ecstatic to finally kick off the afternoon. Ming can barely contain herself as she hypes up the itinerary, reminding everyone that they secured a private lesson with a touring professional golfer who is currently sitting right on the PGA leaderboard.
Ming grabs you and Suki by the forearms, her bright, celebratory energy anchoring the group as she guides you all toward a shaded, private pavilion just off the main clubhouse.
"Okay, everyone, pay attention," Ming chirps, clapping her hands together to gather the focus of the six girls in total. "This is Master Instructor Eric. He actually qualified for the PGA leaderboard last season and is working overtime to do so again this season, so please do not embarrass me by launching a club into the harbor."
Eric steps forward with an easy, professional smile, looking effortlessly athletic in his tailored Royal Crest polo. "Welcome, ladies, and happy birthday, Ming. We're going to get you set up with some premium rentals at the pro shop first, and then we'll head down to the private tier of the driving range to look at your baseline posture."
The group migrates to the club's exclusive gear room, where the staff meticulously pairs each of the six girls with a high-end, lightweight set of graphite-shaft clubs. Suki slides a sleek, leather-wrapped driver out of her rented bag, testing the weight with a practiced, athletic tilt of her head.
"Alright, the prettiest women in this establishment are officially all armed," Suki murmurs near your ear, adjusting the red Polo Bear sweater draping her shoulders. "Let's see if we can actually hit the ball or if we're just here to look rich."
"We are doing both, obviously," you whisper back, checking your lip gloss in the reflection of your driver's polished clubhead before following the group out onto the grass.
Down at the private tier of the driving range, the setting is completely elite. The midday sun reflects beautifully off the water at the edge of the harbor, the salt air blowing a gentle breeze that makes your white tennis skirt sway smoothly against your hips as you walk. Eric sets down a large basket of premium golf balls and positions a glossy driver in front of Suki first.
"Alright, let's start with the baseline stance," Eric instructs smoothly, stepping in closer to adjust Suki's grip on the rubber handle. His guidance is light and encouraging. "Keep your shoulders loose, hips square, and let the momentum do the work. Don't force the swing."
Suki shifts her weight with a dancer's natural grace. She takes a clean, fluid swing—the crisp, echoing crack of the ball vibrating across the empty range as it sails straight down the center of the fairway.
"Look at that! Perfect extension," Eric praises, flashing her a brilliant grin before turning his attention fully to you, setting a fresh ball onto the rubber tee. He steps into your personal space, his hand gesturing toward the alignment of your stance. "Your turn, Y/n. Let's see how you handle the driver. Just mimic her hip rotation."
You step up to the plate, adjusting the drape of your pink Ralph Lauren sweater. As you grip the leather handle of the driver, a sudden, lingering tingle between your thighs serves as a very vivid reminder of the elevator ride from lunch. You clear your throat, forcing your focus back to the golf ball, and take a deep breath to square your shoulders.
"Don't overthink it, Y/n," Ming calls out from the seating area, where the rest of the girls are sipping iced drinks and cheering. "Show the pro what we're working with!"
You chuckle, adjusting the grip of the leather handle in your palms and shifting your weight. The white tennis skirt swishes playfully against your thighs as you look down at the bright white ball.
"Alright, let’s see," you murmur, leaning into the stance Eric showed you. You twist your torso, drawing the driver back with a steady, calculated focus, before swinging forward with all the natural momentum you can muster.
Thwack! The ball lifts off the tee in a high, dramatic arc, slicing beautifully through the crisp harbor air before bouncing hard and rolling deep into the secondary cut of the fairway. It’s not quite as straight as Suki’s shot, but the sheer distance has the peanut gallery on the lounge chairs cheering instantly.
"Oh, okay, power hitter!" Ming squeals, raising her glass of iced tea toward you. "Zuko clearly isn't the only one in that relationship who can hit something right!"
You let out a rich laugh, resting the head of the driver on the grass as a sudden warmth blooms in your cheeks. If only they knew what was occupying your thoughts right now.
Eric nods in genuine approval, walking over to reset the tee for the next girl. "Excellent power, Y/n. Your hip rotation is incredibly fluid—honestly, if you just tweak your wrist alignment by a fraction of an inch on the follow-through, you'll have a perfect straight shot."
"Hear that, Su? I've got power," you tease, casting a rascally look over your shoulder at your best friend, who is currently leaning against her own club like a seasoned veteran.
"Mmhmm, we all know you're great at handling an impact, pumpkin," Suki fires back smoothly, her voice a low, highly confidential murmur meant just for you as she adjusts the red Polo Bear sweater on her shoulders. "But let's see if you can keep that same energy when we move to the putting green. That's where the real precision comes in."
For the next forty-five minutes, the driving range is an absolute symphony of clinking clubs, bad swings, chaotic laughter, and celebratory cheers. Out of the six girls, at least two manage to accidentally launch a divot of grass further than the actual ball, sending the entire group into fits of breathless giggles. Eric handles the chaos like a true professional, giving pointers on stance and grip while thoroughly enjoying the vibrant, high-energy rhythm of your circle.
"Alright, ladies, that wraps up the baseline clinic," Eric announces with a brilliant, charming smile, wiping his hands on a club towel. "You all did fantastic. Ming, happy birthday again. I expect to see you all back here testing the club championship grid next season."
"Only if you're the one pouring the champagne at the finish line, Eric!" one of the dancers shouts back, prompting a chorus of laughter from the group as you all begin packing up your high-end rentals.
The group migrates from the driving range to the starting tee box, where the real chaos of the afternoon officially begins. Playing a scramble format to keep things moving, the six of you turn the pristine, quiet fairways of the Royal Crest into an absolute playground. It’s a beautiful, sun-drenched blur of Suki managing surprisingly clean iron shots despite the aesthetic constraints of her tight athletic pencil skirt, Ming accidentally driving a ball directly into a sand bunker, and the entire group cheering whenever a putt actually sinks.
By the time you reach the midpoint of the seventh hole, the afternoon heat has fully settled in, and the collective thirst of the group is reaching a critical level.
"Okay, if I don’t get something iced and sparkling in my system within the next five minutes, I am going to pass out right here on the fringe," Ming groans, using her visor to frantically fan her flushed face as she collapses onto a shaded bench by the green.
You shield your eyes against the sun, scanning the rolling green hills behind you. "Didn't Eric say there was a refreshment cart doing rounds today?"
"We completely missed her," Suki notes, checking her phone as she adjusts the vibrant red Polo Bear sweater still draped flawlessly over her shoulders. "I saw the cart girl coasting past the fifth hole when we were putting out, but she was going entirely too fast. She's long gone by now."
You look over at Suki, a devious, rascally twinkle instantly returning to your eyes as you look down at your cream handbag, knowing exactly who is sponsoring the day's hydration. "Well... the main clubhouse patio is only a short walk back past the hedge line. What do you say, Su? Want to go on a rescue mission for the group?"
"Absolutely," Suki agrees instantly, a triumphant grin breaking across her face. "Girls, hold our spot. Your captain and honorary teammate is going on a beverage run."
Leaving the other four girls to debate the logistics of Ming's next chip shot, you and Suki leave your rented golf bags by the green and stroll down the paved path. The white tennis skirt sways effortlessly with every movement of your hips as you walk, the soft pastel-pink sweater bouncing gently against your shoulder blades as the harbor breeze carries the crisp scent of the ocean water across the lawn.
The outdoor pavilion bar at the main clubhouse is the epitome of gate-kept, old-money luxury. White columns support a shaded pergola, and wealthy patrons in pristine linen sets are murmuring quietly over midday cocktails. You stride right up to the polished mahogany counter, your cream kitten heels clicking softly against the flagstone flooring.
"Hi, good afternoon," you greet the bartender smoothly, resting your forearm on the cool surface. "We missed the course cart, so we're looking to grab a round of refreshments for a group of six out on the seventh."
"Of course, ma'am," the bartender responds with a well-trained, elite hospitality smile. "What can I get started for you?"
"Let's do six of your signature sparkling lavender-lemon mocktails," you instruct, offering a bright, effortless smile. "And make sure they're in the travel cups with plenty of ice, please. Oh, and six waters as well."
As the bartender turns to begin muddling the fresh lavender and pouring the sparkling soda, Suki leans her elbow on the bar beside you, looking around the pristine, white-brick terrace with immense satisfaction.
"I have to admit, the vibe here is elite," Suki whispers, a low cackle escaping her throat as she watches a group of older men in matching golf caps look over at the two of you. "We don't even know our own handicaps, but walking in here looking like a Ralph Lauren catalog while ordering top-shelf mocktails on Zuko's dime? It's sick work we're doing today, Y/n. Truly inspiring."
"He insisted I consider his card an emergency fund," you drawl back, a thoroughly smug, pleased grin playing on your glossed lips as you reach into your bag and casually slide the matte-black plastic between your fingers. "And ensuring my best friends don't suffer from dehydration at a country club seems like a massive emergency to me."
"A humanitarian, honestly," Suki teases, doing a little celebratory shimmy right there by the bar stools.
The bartender returns, carefully arranging six beautifully condensed, frosted travel cups into a secure carrying tray. The sparkling lavender drinks look incredibly refreshing, tiny bubbles rising to the top around fresh lemon wheels. Beside them, he places a secondary carrier holding six artisanal, heavy glass water bottles—a ridiculous display of luxury for plain H2O that makes your and Suki’s eyebrows rise in pure amusement.
"Whenever you're ready, ma'am," the bartender states, presenting the digital payment screen.
You slide Zuko's sleek black card across the counter with practiced elegance, watching the screen flash a quiet, successful confirmation. 5:55 PM. You check your own phone screen, completely satisfied by the timeline. Zuko should be comfortably at home by now, probably prepping for his evening run.
Suki leaves two twenties on the mahogany counter as a cash tip, and from there, it becomes a high-stakes balancing act to securely get the massive tray of beverages back to your group of chaos out on the fairway.
The tray of condensed lavender mocktails and heavy glass water bottles are an instant hit, the six of you huddled around the golf carts laughing and re-energizing as the golden hour sun begins its slow, gorgeous descent over the harbor. Refreshed and running on pure best-friend momentum, the group sinks right back into the rhythm of the game. The energy is light, competitive, and loud, your white tennis skirt catching the warm evening breeze every time you step up to rotate your hips through a clean iron shot.
But as the scramble format guides your group closer to the coastal edge of the ninth hole—right where the manicured grass meets the stone harbor retaining wall and lines up parallel with the paved golf cart paths—the breezy, celebratory air of the afternoon completely stalls.
The low, high-end electric purr of a custom golf cart approaches from the club’s private terrace path, cutting right through the sound of the crashing waves.
Suki is the first to freeze, her hand loosening on her putter as her eyes track the vehicle pulling up onto the gravel shoulder right beside your green.
You turn your head, shielding your eyes against the blinding amber glare of the setting sun, and instantly clock the sleek, pristine cart. Behind the wheel is Ty Lee, her vibrant pink visor matching her bright energy as she brings the cart to a sudden halt, waving aggressively at your group with a massive, entirely conflict-free smile.
"Oh, look, Ty Lee," a chillingly smooth, dangerously calculated voice slices through the salt air as the passenger door clicks open. "It seems the shallow end of the pool has officially migrated to the harbor tier."
Azula steps onto the grass with practiced, lethal elegance. She is dressed to absolute perfection in a tailored, crimson tennis skirt set, a pristine white visor casting a sharp shadow over her cat-like eyes as she gracefully twirls a high-end driver between her manicured fingers.
But it’s the third figure sitting in the back of the cart that makes your eyebrows rise in silent curiosity.
Leaning heavily against the leather armrest, looking utterly bored out of her mind as she flips through her phone, is a girl you’ve never seen a day in your life. She’s dressed in a sharp, dark linen blazer over a minimalist black top, her sleek hair pinned back with total high-society precision. She radiates a heavy, untouchable layer of dark, old-money apathy—very detached, very dangerous, and completely unimpressed by the entire layout of the country club.
“First you ruin our afternoon by making my sorry brother rent out the entire terrace, and now you’re staining my sacred grounds by making me wait until you and your little friends are done acting as if this is a jungle gym," Azula drawls, her golden eyes locking onto yours with demanding intensity as she stops at the edge of the turf. "Does your impudence know no bounds, or do you just like playing with fire?”
Your grip tightens around the puck until your nails dig crescents into your palm.
“Excuse the hell out of you?” One of the girls calls out from over your shoulder, her voice firm and full of bite.
Before Azula can even pivot her sharp gaze to track the new voice, Suki steps right up to the edge of the green, casually resting her driver over her shoulders as she looks down at the girl in crimson. Her shit-eating grin is entirely gone, replaced by a cold, untouchable calm.
"You can either wait like a good dog, or you can go bark to somebody else," Suki states smoothly, her voice carrying clear across the quiet harbor lawn. "We're in the middle of a round."
“Suki. Tell me, is Sokka still putting off setting a wedding date because his mother’s ring doesn't quite fit a girl from the ghetto side of the city? Or is he just realizing he can do better than a glorified lightweight?”
The hairs on the back of your neck bristle and the air feels as if it stills completely. The words come out faster than anyone else can compute as you take two large steps forward, crowding Azula's space.
“I’m begging you to repeat that so I can use your head for my next hole-in-one.”
“I see he’s dating so far out his flavor profile, he’s reached the realm of other.” The voice is dry and desolate of emotion, but it gains your attention as you shift your focus to the woman in dark colors.
You don’t know her. You’re sure of it, but you can recognize a bitter tryst with ease.
Your smile turns sickly sweet, your head tilting with a predatory grace as you look past Azula and lock your gaze directly onto the girl in the dark blazer.
"And you must be the background noise," you drawl, your voice dropping into a smooth, velvety register that completely cuts through the salt air. "I'd tell you to mind the business that pays you, but judging by how much free time you have to sit in the back of a golf cart and analyze my man's taste, it looks like you're currently unemployed."
Mai’s thumbs instantly freeze over her phone screen.
For a fraction of a second, the heavy, untouched apathy masking her features completely slips. Her head cocks to the side, and a single, sharp eyebrow raises with a sudden, unmistakable flicker of genuine interest. No one in their social circle ever dares to swing back at them with that level of unbothered, lethal precision—let alone look Mai dead in the eyes and dismiss her as a seasonal distraction.
"Oh, wow...Mai" Ty Lee squeaks from behind the steering wheel, her eyes darting between the two of you in absolute, wide-eyed panic as the entire green turns into a complete pressure cooker.
Azula lets out a scoff that lands somewhere in the realm of amusement and disgust. “Let’s be entirely clear, darling. You can wrap yourself in Ralph Lauren and flash a piece of plastic with my family's last name on it, but you are nothing more than an exotic weekend distraction. When the board meetings conclude and the legacy matters, he will dump you right back into the shallow end where he found you.”
You inhale sharply, the breath hitching in your throat as the next insult meets your ears.
“She’s right. Men of his caliber don’t marry the help. They sleep with them in hotel rooms, buy them lingerie to keep them quiet, and then marry women whose names are actually on the buildings. You’re a placeholder until I decide to stop ignoring him,” it’s spoken with such detachment and objectification that it leaves you stunned.
Your jaw muscle twitches from how hard you’re clenching. Your brain is working a mile a second, the hot rage in your chest warring violently with the logical, pragmatic editor inside you. You have a career. You have a life. You have far too much to lose to let two miserable, elitist trust-fund securements drag you down into a public country club brawl.
You swallow your pride roughly, forcing a breath deep into your lungs as you consciously drop your shoulders. You look Azula and the unfamiliar woman dead in the eyes, your expression smoothing into a look of unbothered pity.
"You know what? I'm not even going to give you the satisfaction," you state smoothly, your voice ringing clear and steady over the course. "We came out here to celebrate, not to entertain a couple of bitter spectators who have nothing better to do than obsess over us from a golf cart. Let's go, girls. They aren't worth the energy."
You turn your back on them, pivoting your heels to lead your friends back toward the game. It is a flawless execution of maturity—a definitive choice to walk away with your head held high.
But Azula’s ego cannot handle a peaceful exit.
A sharp, sudden movement cuts through the air behind you, followed by the wet, aggressive splat of liquid hitting the manicured turf just inches from your white tennis skirt. The remaining sticky green droplets of her iced matcha splash across the grass, a few rogue spots dampening the hem of Suki's pristine pencil skirt.
The air stalls completely. Your voice of reason shatters into absolute dust. You freeze in your tracks, your spine turning to ice as you slowly look down at the green puddle, and then back up at the girls.
Before you can even take another step, the heavy silver of a golf club head clicks sharply against the turf behind you.
"Just so we are entirely clear," Ming’s voice rings out from over your shoulder, completely stripped of its birthday cheer and dripping with a precariously, protective octave. "I have bail money sitting in my savings account right now, and I am more than willing to take this as far as you ladies want to go after this amount of disrespect."
On either side of you, the other four dancers instantly close ranks, their athletic frames shifting into a unified, unyielding wall of physical defense. Suki steps right into the space between your group and the edge of the turf, her driver resting loosely in her palms as her eyes lock onto Azula with lethal certainty.
"You have but three seconds before shit hits the fan," Suki states, her voice an frigid, dangerous warning that makes the entire harbor green feel dead silent. "Three seconds before we become completely unaccountable for our next course of actions. Start counting."
Suki doesn't even make it to two.
The instant the final warning leaves her lips, the stalemate completely shatters. One of the dancers over your shoulder doesn't hesitate for a fraction of a second—she steps forward and chucks her entire heavy, condensation-beaded lavender mocktail directly at Azula's face. The sticky, ice-cold liquid hits her squarely across her crimson top, completely ruining her pristine high-society look in a split second.
Before Azula or Mai can even register the shock, two of the other dancers actively sprint around the flank, bypassing you entirely. With synchronized, savage precision, they uncap their remaining travel cups and pour the sticky lavender syrup and heavy ice directly over the leather seats and custom dashboard of the luxury golf cart itself.
From there, things turn south in an absolute heartbeat.
The entire green erupts into a violent, chaotic array of movement between the two factions. White tennis skirts and crimson athletic wear blur together as hands are thrown, shoulders collide, and golf clubs are dropped onto the turf. Ty Lee completely loses her mind, caught in a frantic, split-second panic as she oscillates wildly between desperate peacemaker and active opposition. One second she’s throwing her hands up, begging everyone to stop, and the next she’s instinctively ducking a swinging arm or putting up a defensive guard to push a dancer back as the brawl spills off the grass and right onto the gravel path.
The sharp, authoritative blast of security whistles finally cuts through the salt air as a squad of Royal Crest country club guards descends on the harbor point, desperately forcing their way between the two groups to break up the melee.
But the damage is already done. Your group definitely got their hits in.
As you’re all finally separated and escorted off the lawn toward the main clubhouse, the physical aftermath speaks for itself. On your side, the six of you walk with your heads held high—every single one of you looking audaciously proud of the absolute havoc you just wreaked. Across the path, the opposition is a total disaster. Mai looks deeply annoyed, picking a piece of lavender mint off her dark linen blazer with pure disgust. Ty Lee is entirely flustered, frantically trying to fix her high ponytail. And Azula? Azula looks completely, unhinged-ly pissed, her crimson tennis set stained with sticky syrup, her golden eyes burning holes into your back.
As the guards lead your faction down the long, white-brick corridor toward a private holding room, you don't waste a single second. Matching Suki's stride, you quickly unzip your cream shoulder bag. You slip your fingers past Zuko's platinum card, slide your phone out, and keep it low against your tennis skirt.
With your heart still hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, you quickly fire off an emergency SOS pin drop to the main group chat consisting of you, Suki, Sokka, and Zuko.
[Location Pin: Royal Crest Country Club - Security Management Suite] you: Golf has been compromised. Bring bail money.
You shove the phone back into your bag just as a guard opens the heavy mahogany door, ushering all six of you into a small, plushly carpeted boardroom to begin recounting the incident.
“Head of security and our club Assistant VP of Club Operations will be in to obtain your statement and inform you of next steps, but ladies, this is not how we conduct ourselves at Royal Crest,” the security guard chastises, a look of distaste overshadowing his features as he turns around.
The second the heavy mahogany door clicks shut behind the guard, leaving the six of you alone in the quaint holding room, the tense silence completely disintegrates. The room bursts into an absolute, rambunctious symphony of overlapping voices, breathless laughter, and pure adrenaline as the girls instantly begin a wild, chaotic retelling of the entire incident.
"Oh my god, did you see her face?!" Ming squeals, completely throwing away her birthday visor onto the glass coffee table as she does a celebratory victory lap around the carpet. "When the mocktail hit her right in the chest? I thought her fake old-money soul was going to leave her body!"
"And the golf cart!" another dancer howls, leaning against the wall and clutching her stomach from laughing so hard. "We literally drowned the leather seats in sticky syrup and ice. That custom dashboard is never going to recover!"
Suki drops her driver into the corner of the room with a satisfying clatter, a massive, triumphant grin finally breaking across her face as she shakes out her shoulders. She looks over at you, her eyes sparkling with that fierce Kyoshi pride. "Y/n, those two large steps you took toward Azula? Absolute cinema. I thought you were actually going to take her head off with that iron."
"She asked if my impudence knew no bounds, so I had to show her the boundaries," you laugh, finally letting out the breath you've been holding as you sit down at the table.
"But the audacity!" Ming counters, her voice dropping into a mocking, high-society drawl as she mimics Azula's posture. "'Staining my sacred grounds.' Who talks like that? It’s a public-adjacent fairway, you miserable reptile!"
"And that girl in the dark blazer" another girl chimes in, tossing her hands in the air. "Saying men of Zuko's caliber buy lingerie to keep people quiet? The absolute projection! And another thing, like how obsessed over this man are you to even know what his lunch plans were?!"
The chaotic laughter continues to echo around the small room, but the sound suddenly blurs into distant static as that final question hits your brain like a physical jolt.
How did they know?
Your mind instantly races backward, rapidly relaying through the events of the afternoon until you're standing right back in the warm, dim luxury of the hotel restaurant. You remember the heavy weight of Zuko's hand on your waist, guiding you out, and the faint, hushed words of the restaurant attendant that you had barely paid attention to at the time:
“The left side of the terrace was closed for a private party madam, but if you give us just a minute we can have it set up for you and your party of three.”
The memory snaps into focus with terrifying clarity. The party of three. The left side of the terrace.
Those bitches, and adorable Ty Lee were there this afternoon. What are the fucking odds?
You shake your head, laughing quietly at the irony before focusing back on the room.
The room is a brilliant, buzzing vacuum of high-energy hype, all six of you completely unified and audaciously proud of the chaos you just unleashed. Every time someone reconstructs a specific punch thrown or a cup poured, the room erupts all over again, entirely unbothered by the fact that country club management is currently outside trying to untangle the legal paperwork.
The heavy mahogany door clicks open, instantly freezing the high-energy laughter inside the room.
The head of security enters first, his bulky frame projecting an imposing, no-nonsense authority. Right on his heels is the Assistant VP of Club Operations—a man meticulously dressed in a tailored navy blazer, his hair slicked back, and an expression of profound corporate annoyance resting on his face.
The power dynamic shifts in the room immediately. You can see it in the way the AVP looks at the six of you, his eyes scanning your rumpled tennis outfits with an unmistakable layer of classist disdain. Azula and Mai are high rollers here; their families represent legacy memberships and multi-million-dollar endowments to the Royal Crest network. To management, you are six unknown outsiders who just systematically dismantled their pristine clubhouse peace.
"Alright, ladies," the Assistant VP begins, his tone dripping with condescending, gate-kept authority as he folds his arms. "I've already taken a full statement from Miss Ryu and Miss Morishita. Needless to say, destroying a customer’s club asset and launching beverages at premium tier members is a direct violation of our charter. We are looking at significant property damage to the golf cart, and frankly, a blatant assault charge."
The head of security steps forward, pulling out a small notepad. "We're going to need each of your legal names, identification, and the primary account holder associated with your guest passes today. The club will be pursuing full financial restitution, and depending on the statement verification, local law enforcement is already on standby."
Ming’s jaw drops, her defensive birthday energy instantly flaring back up, but Suki catches her forearm with a tight, grounding grip, her eyes narrowing at the blatant favoritism happening right in front of you. They’ve already taken Azula’s side without even asking for your version of the story.
You press your fingers to the bridge of your nose, feeling the start of a headache brewing, but no guilt, no second- guessing at all. You’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.
“I just think it’s real funny, how–” Suki’s words are cut short as a sharp, commanding knock rattles the heavy mahogany door.
Before the security guard can even reach for the handle, the door swings open to reveal a sight that completely upends the power dynamic in the room.
Zuko leads the charge, stepping into the small holding suite like a man who owns the foundation it was built on. He looks effortlessly elite, dressed in a pair of tailored linen pants and a matching crisp button-up shirt—clearly interrupted right in the middle of preparing for his evening routine. Right behind him is Sokka, still in his sharp work attire, consisting of a button-up shirt and slacks, his face set into an unusually grim, fiercely protective mask the second his eyes sweep over the room to take in the girls.
But it’s the third man entering the room that makes the Assistant VP of Club Operations turn a sudden, ghostly shade of white. Walking a step behind Zuko, looking sweaty and deeply apologetic, is the country club's actual, executive Vice President.
The room holds its breath. Zuko stands at the epicenter of the space, his commanding presence immediately rendering the AVP and the head of security completely small.
"Is everyone okay?" Zuko poses the question to the entire room, his voice a smooth, low baritone that carries a terrifyingly quiet authority.
Though his question is for all six of the girls, his steadfast gaze locks immediately onto you. His golden eyes drop to trace the slight rumple of your pink sweater, inspecting you for any actual damage, before rising back to meet yours with a reassuring, unyielding focus.
Behind him, Sokka’s eyes instantly find Suki, his gaze lingering on the rogue green droplets of matcha dampening the hem of her athletic skirt, his jaw clenching hard enough to see the muscle jumping.
The club's Assistant VP scrambles forward, his previous condescending arrogance completely evaporating into frantic submission. "Mr. Ryu! Sir, we—we didn't expect you here personally. There was a highly volatile incident out on the ninth green involving property damage and your sister, and we were just attempting to get these young ladies' credentials—"
"I am the primary account holder for their passes today," Zuko cuts him off smoothly, not even turning his head to look at the man. He keeps his eyes entirely on you, a dark, dangerously protective smirk ghosting the corner of his lips as he registers your completely guilt-free expression. "And any financial restitution or legal statements regarding my sister's custom assets will go through my personal legal counsel. You all can step outside now."
The club's Vice President frantically gestures for the Assistant VP and the head of security to exit, both men scrambling out of the room so fast they nearly trip over their own loafers. The heavy mahogany door clicks shut with a soft, final snap, leaving just your group, Zuko, and Sokka in the room.
The atmosphere shifts instantly. Sokka immediately closes the remaining distance to Suki, his large hands gently cupping her elbows as he checks the hem of her skirt up close, murmuring a low, frantic question under his breath that Suki answers with a small, reassuring squeeze of his forearm.
Zuko doesn't say a word at first. He moves with a slow, commanding grace over to the head of the polished conference table. He sits down, looking every bit composed and effortlessly regal in his tailored linen. He casually crosses one leg so his ankle rests right on his knee, leaning back against the leather chair with his arms folded over his chest. He tilts his head slightly, taking in the group's chaotic appearances from this new angle.
The silence stretches, heavy and thick with his overwhelming presence. Underneath his hard, calculating stare, the girls instantly start to squirm, shifting their weight and suddenly finding the abstract paintings on the wall or the pattern of the carpet incredibly fascinating. Nobody wants to look him directly in the eye, fully anticipating him to rip them a new one for turning a luxury country club into an episode of bad reality TV.
In the back row, one of the dancers leans an inch closer to Ming, her voice a tiny, barely audible breath. "Uh-oh... daddy's mad."
"Ow!" she whispers a second later, rubbing her ribs as Ming sharply elbows her in the side, giving her a frantic, wide-eyed warning look.
Zuko’s eyebrow twitches slightly at the whisper, but his expression remains an unreadable, stony mask as he just sits and listens. After a minute or two of the suffocating quiet, the collective anxiety in the room finally boils over, and all of the girls' voices start to intersect at once in a frantic, overlapping rush to explain themselves before he can blow up.
"Zuko, look, they literally tracked us down—"
"Azula threw her drink first, I swear to god—"
"Dark and dreary said the most unhinged, atrocious things about Y/n—"
"We had to protect the vibe and our honor, it was self-defense—"
The frantic explanations bounce off the walls, the girls practically tripping over each other's words, looking entirely remorseful yet desperately hoping he understands why they did what they did.
Zuko simply raises a single hand. The gesture is small, completely effortless, but the absolute authority behind it silences the entire room in a fraction of a second. Every mouth snaps shut, the girls holding their breath like students waiting for a detention lecture.
Zuko slowly shifts his gaze across the trembling lineup, his sharp golden eyes eventually stopping right on you. He simply raises an eyebrow, a tiny, rascally glint of amusement finally warring with the dangerous protective edge in his features.
"What happened to simply playing golf?" is his question.
You open your mouth to explain—to lay out the absolute legal, moral, and emotional justification for why Azula’s face needed to meet a lavender-lemon blend and the back of your hand, and then your jaw just snaps completely shut.
Beside you, Suki shifts on her cushion, her fierce athletic confidence instantly evaporating as she opens her mouth to present a tactical defense, only to freeze mid-breath. Her eyes dart to the ceiling, then back to the floor, and she snaps her mouth shut with a quiet, hollow click.
The two of you sit there, completely glitching in real-time as your adult brains desperately scramble and fail to compute a single logical, mature response to explain how a luxury golf clinic turned into a lawless turf war over a ruined drivetrain. From an adult standpoint, there is absolutely no defending the logistics of what just occurred on the ninth hole.
The lifeline to cut the silence comes from Ming, as she lifts her gaze to peer at Zuko through her lashes. Her cheeks are flushed, her white top disheveled, but she perseveres through the discomfort, squaring her shoulders and setting her jaw.
“We were playing… and we were doing really well! I mean, Suki was kicking our asses, Y/n was hitting long balls that may not have been headed for a hole-in-one, but for sure had some distance, and I was having a really good time celebrating my special day with my favorite girls” she states, her chest puffing out in pride as she remembers how the game started.
“—And that’s when things hit the fan, Mr. Zuko, sir,” one of the girls squeaks, her frame hiding behind Ming the moment his golden eyes turn to her.
You clear your throat, raising a hand to speak. “Golf was fun. We were having fun, and then the three clouds descended upon us—”
“And we tried to be adults! Tried to handle it like civil women, but what are you to do when words don’t work and your honor is being spit on?” Ming questions, her voice rising an octave as her birthday outrage flares back up. “They insulted Y/n and our captain—AND—more than fucking once,” she fumes.
Zuko shifts his weight slightly in his chair, his arms still folded tightly over his linen button-up. The suffocating, stony mask he wore when he first entered the room begins to fracture, a small almost indiscernible smile pulls at his lips as he looks from Ming's flushed face right back to you. The sheer absurdity of his high-society sister getting thoroughly jumped and covered in syrup by a pack of elite contemporary dancers on a gated country club fairway is clearly the best thing he’s heard all week.
He uncrosses his leg, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the polished mahogany table, his eyes locked onto yours with an amount of adoration that completely melts the tension and dissipates what could have been a gnarly headache.
“So, just to make sure my baseline summary is correct,” Zuko begins, his words bleeding with amusement and affection. “My sister threw a tantrum, and in response, you stepped to her, threatened her head with—they tell me—a number three golf club, and let your girls dismantle her golf cart?”
You wiggle in your chair, unable to hold his gaze as the weight of the words land. There’s a hint of embarrassment brewing in the pit of your stomach the longer you’re able to sit with your actions. No regret though; again, you’d happily do it again—maybe with twice as much conviction and ferocity.
"That is the baseline summary, yes," you reply, staring intently at the shiny table.
“Mr. Zuko, sir? Will… will we be going to jail? It's okay if so, I–I just want to mentally prepare before the cops walk in,” someone squeaks from the back couch, her voice quivering but entirely certain of her impending criminal record.
Zuko lets out a quiet rich chuckle, the sound completely dismantling the lingering courtroom tension as he shakes his head at the terrified dancer.
“No one is going to jail tonight,” Zuko assures her, his smooth voice dropping the corporate hammer on the matter. “This is officially all wrapped up. My legal team is already handling the property damage assessment, and the club’s incident log is being wiped clean before morning.” He pauses, a rascally, teasing glint flashing in his golden eyes as he glances over the row of relieved, sad-puppy faces. “Though, for the time being, I’d highly suggest you ladies try a few of the other country clubs around the district. Royal Crest might need a season or two to recover from your…extracurriculars .”
A collective, massive sigh of relief ripples through the sofas, the dancers practically melting back into the leather cushions as the threat of a criminal record vanishes.
Zuko pushes back his chair and stands up from the conference table, his effortless, regal authority returning to his frame as he rolls his linen sleeves up one more notch. “Your vehicles are already waiting for you at the valet line up front. You all have a reservation at The Jade Pavilion to make in exactly two hours, so I suggest you get moving.”
The girls instantly start scrambling to grab their designer bags and rented visors, their high-energy birthday vibe snapping back into place in a heartbeat. But before you can even slide your phone back into your shoulder bag to join the exodus, Zuko’s gaze pins you right to your seat.
It’s an intense, heavy stare that completely locks you in place. Beneath the sheer weight of his focus, your knee automatically starts to bounce, your foot tapping a frantic, anxious rhythm against the plush carpet. You aren't full of regret, but sitting alone under his microscopic inspection after executing a country-club turf war is definitely a test for your nervous system.
Zuko catches the sudden movement of your leg, his eyes tracking the bounce before rising back to meet yours, an unreadable expression flashes across his features for a split second before locking back in.
“Sokka,” Zuko instructs evenly, not breaking eye contact with you for a fraction of a second. “Lead the girls up front and get them settled into their vehicles. We’ll be right behind you.”
“You got it, bossman,” Sokka says with a wide, triumphant grin. He wraps his arm around Suki’s waist, guiding her toward the corridor. “Alright, jailbirds, let’s move it. Valet is waiting.”
Ming throws a chaotic, ecstatic wave over her shoulder. “See you at the pavilion, Y/n! Zuko, you are literally a saint!”
The heavy mahogany door clicks shut behind the rowdy pack of dancers, their loud laughter instantly echoing down the white-brick hallway until it fades completely. The room plunges into a thick, absolute silence, leaving just you, the shiny conference table, and Zuko.
You can feel the absolute weight of Zuko’s presence pressing down on you as he slowly rounds the polished mahogany table, his steps entirely unhurried, his clean cologne cutting right through your fading adrenaline.
Your leg is practically drilling a hole into the country club carpet at this point, your fingers twisting the strap of your cream handbag. The adult embarrassment is officially peaking, and under the intensity of his golden eyes, your internal filter completely breaks.
"Okay, look, I know how it sounds," you blurt out, the words tumbling out of your mouth in a frantic, nervous rush before he can even open his mouth. "A number three is probably a lot of club, I know, but you weren't there, Baby. I was genuinely trying to be the voice of reason! I used my mature corporate voice, I told the girls they weren't worth the energy, and we literally turned our backs to walk away. But Azula—fucking demonic seed of your bloodline, she couldn't just let us leave with our dignity. She threw her matcha!"
Zuko stops right in front of your chair, his hands sliding casually into the pockets of his tailored linen pants as he looks down at you, his head slightly tilted, letting you dig your own grave.
"And I'm not apologizing for the golf cart either," you continue, your voice rising an octave as you ramble through the confession, looking everywhere in the room except at his face. "Because frankly, the things leaving their mouths were downright atrocious. Azula called me an exotic weekend distraction, and then her little emotionless shadow—I don't even know who that girl in the blazer was, by the way, but she has some serious boundary issues—she had the absolute audacity to say that men of your caliber buy lingerie just to keep the help quiet! She called me a placeholder until she decided to stop ignoring you!"
You take a deep breath, your shoulders dropping a bit as the raw gravity of the situation really settles into your chest.
“I–I love you, Zuko. I love you enough to swallow my pride when your sister and her minion insult me. I love you enough to think four times over before retaliating in a way that would tarnish your reputation. I let it slide when that dreary cloud called me an ‘other’, when your sister insulted my best friend's upbringing, when they called me ‘the help’—I really fucking tried. And I–I’m not sorry for hitting her. I’m not sorry for ruining her golf cart or her expensive clothes. In fact, if I ever catch her in the streets, I’m liable to execute street justice, but I am incredibly apologetic of how my actions reflect on you.”
You finally snap your mouth shut, inhaling a sharp, ragged breath as the echo of your own words bounces off the walls of the small room. Your face is burning, your heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs as you stare intently at the polished table.
The secondary panic hits you almost immediately.
I love you. You said it. You actually just said it. Not over a romantic dinner, not in a quiet, intimate moment between the sheets, but blurted out in a breathless, heated rush while trying to justify a physical altercation. Your fingers tighten around your purse strap until your knuckles turn white, your inner filter screaming at you for letting your guards down completely.
You wait for the lecture. You wait for a corporate sigh, or a gentle, awkward shift in his posture as he tries to navigate the emotional landmines you just detonated on the carpet.
Instead, the room stays entirely quiet.
You force your gaze upward, expecting a hard, stern look. But the expression on Zuko's face makes you freeze completely.
The casual, amused look he had just a minute ago has entirely vanished, replaced by a rigid stillness that makes his jaw look like it was carved out of granite. His golden eyes are wide and completely locked onto yours, his chest rising and falling in expansions as the sheer magnitude of everything you just confessed filters through his brain.
He doesn't move a single muscle. He just stares at you, completely paralyzed by the unrefined, tenacious devotion you just laid at his feet, even while promising street justice.
"Y/n," Zuko finally breathes, his voice scraping into a quiet, raspy tone that vibrates right through the floorboards. He takes his hands out of his linen pockets, sliding your chair back just enough for him to carve a space for him to stand between you and the table. "Say that again."
You freeze; leg no longer bouncing, your hand releases the strap of your purse, and you stare up at him with confusion and uncertainty.
"Say what?" you whisper, your voice barely clearing the space between you. Your mind is spinning, trying to untangle the multiple threads of your own outburst. Are we talking about the golf cart? The number three iron? The fact that you just promised a corporate executive that you might jump his sister in the street?
Zuko doesn't offer a single hint of amusement to bail you out. He comes down to your level, dropping to one knee right in front of your chair. The casual ease of his linen pants creases against the carpet as he places his large hands firmly on the armrests on either side of you, completely boxing you into his presence. Up close, his features serve as a distraction and comfort, his golden eyes searching yours with a piercing clarity that demands absolute honesty.
"The part before you threatened my sister with street justice," Zuko clarifies, his gaze tracking the tiny, frantic movements of your eyes. "The part about why you tried to walk away."
Your breath catches. The realization of exactly what you let slip settles right into the center of your chest. The adult embarrassment flares up all over again, making your collarbone flush beneath your pink sweater, but you refuse to look away from him now.
"I said I love you," you murmur, the words coming out much steadier this time, stripped of the frantic, angry pace from a minute ago. "And I meant it. Mean it. That’s why I didn’t just swing on her the second she opened her mouth. I just found out you’re rather…important and I knew that beforehand, but today I think I cognitively filed it away into the correct drawer when you spoke about what you do for work. And their words, just— I–I, oh god, " your brain does a mini-reboot as you try to connect your thoughts to your mouth “I–this is not how I wanted to tell you this,” you confess, closing your eyes briefly to see if that will help you slow your train of thought.
When you open your eyes, you find Zuko exactly where you left him, his large hands still steady on the armrests, his posture patient and entirely unmoving. The panic of the verbal stumble is still buzzing in your ears, but the look he is giving you isn't judgmental; it is deeply focused, drinking in every single ounce of your unfiltered vulnerability.
The severe line of his jaw softens, a faint, incredibly tender look breaking through the protective shield he usually keeps up. He reaches out, his long fingers sliding up the side of your neck, his thumb resting gently against your jawline to anchor you. His touch is firm and grounding, single-handedly forcing your racing thoughts to a complete halt.
"Hey," Zuko says softly, his voice a clear, smooth tone that cuts right through your internal chaos. "Look at me."
You do, your eyes locking back onto his brilliant gold.
"It doesn't matter how it came out," he tells you, his thumb brushing over your skin with a reassuring, steady rhythm. A soft laugh slips past his lips and your eyebrows furrow in response. “I’m quite helplessly in love with you, princess. So much so I’m thinking of all the various ways I could fuck over Azula and her companions in a way that would calm the rage inside of me for their sheer audacity to even breathe in your direction.”
The admission leaves his lips with an absolute, crystalline certainty that makes your entire body relax, the last of your embarrassment evaporating on the spot. He isn't just accepting your messy confession—he is fully matching your frequency.
“Can you say that again?” you question, feeling the sting behind your eyes as his words wash over you and entirely cleanse away the messiness of the situation.
The smile on his face makes your heart skip a beat. “I love you,” he states, before pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I love you,” this kiss lands on your forehead. “I love you,” it’s placed right on the opposite cheek.
His lips ghost over yours, eyes radiant. “I knew I was going to love you the moment you cheekily walked out of Suki’s apartment after telling me my hair makes me look delectable. And my hunch was only solidified when you sat in my kitchen, dressed in my clothes, doing a happy dance because I successfully acquired you fries. I love you when you rub your freezing feet on me at night, when you dictate our television time and give me all the background knowledge I need to understand black cinema and Tyler Perry. I especially love you when you stick up for yourself, call me, and promise street justice on my bloodline.”
Your eyes flutter shut as the space between you disappears completely.
Zuko captures your lips in a kiss that is entirely different from the playful touches from a second ago. It is deep, unhurried, and consumerist in its intensity, carrying the full weight of every single word he just confessed. His hand slides from your jawline to cup the back of your neck, his long fingers tangling into the roots of your silk press to tilt your head perfectly against his, anchoring you to him as if you would even think about leaving.
The country club holding room, the threat of legal statements, and the lingering sting of Azula’s insults completely dissolve into absolute nothingness.
He tastes like his favorite rich, dark espresso, his lips moving against yours with a desperate, possessive hunger that takes your breath away entirely. You let out a soft, helpless sigh against his mouth, your fingers grip the soft linen of his button-up shirt just to keep your balance.
When he finally pulls away, he doesn't go far. He rests his forehead right back against yours, both of your breaths coming in shallow, uneven pants that fill the tiny space between your lips. Your head is spinning, your entire body feeling completely weightless and floaty, as if the carpet beneath your feet has simply vanished.
Zuko lets out a low, ragged breath, his eyes half-lidded and burning with a fierce satisfaction as he takes in your thoroughly dazed, breathless expression.
Your smile turns loopy, big and goofy. “So,” you murmur, leaning further into his touch. “Despite how much you love me, I know you’re a man of cause and effect. What are my consequences, Officer?”
“You mentioned not wanting to go to this dinner tonight back at lunch, so I’m going to give you two choices, princess,” he murmurs, finally standing up and offering his large hand to pull you out of the chair. The intense, commanding authority returns to his frame the second you rise, his arm instantly wrapping around your waist to anchor your body parallel to his side.
“Choice one,” Zuko begins, his eyes radiating a devastatingly handsome, wicked glint as he looks down at your flushed face. “You attend the festivities with your girls, celebrate Ming's birthday, and whenever you are ready to come home, I will happily come and collect you. But I assure you, you won't be getting a single wink of sleep tonight.
"Or," he continues, his fingers pressing firmly into the small of your back, drawing you a fraction closer, "choice two. You get a headstart. You text the group chat right now and tell them you won't be making it—whether you tell them the real reason is entirely your choice. But you will be my exercise and outlet for the evening, seeing as I had to skip my actual workout, break several traffic laws just to keep you and your little ruffians out of official handcuffs, and received news that my sister disrespected you in a way that extends beyond me needing to give her a warning.”
You stare up at him, mouth agape at his two proposals. You clear your throat, nodding in agreement, “I’ll…I’ll let them know I’m paying off the Black Card and they’ll understand,” you mumble, wrapping your arm around his waist as he leads you outside of your temporary holding quarters.
Zuko lets out an amused hum, “If that’s the case, cancel your weekend plans too. You didn’t spend nearly enough of your emergency funds for my liking, I think that’s punishable as well.”
You squint, tilting your head back to peer at him incredulously, “ I–I, what kind of man wants to punish his girlfriend for not spending enough of his money?”
A wicked smirk takes over his features, as the two of you pass through the empty corridors of the side entrance. “One that loves his girlfriend so much that he’s eager to leverage his amazingly steady tax bracket for her to live an unlimited lifestyle,” he states, oozing sheer confidence and certainty.
“Get a load of this guy, you’re back to being a dictator, hmm?” you tease, welcoming the summer heat as the warmth welcomes you as you step outside from the stuffy atmosphere of Royal Crest.
“Only because my little tyrant returned,” he retorts, opening the door to his waiting BMW. He watches you with steadfast reverence. He leans over and buckles you in, crowding your space with the scent of him.
You giggle, pressing a kiss to his cheek as he secures you, “you love this little tyrant,” you whisper, allowing your lips to brush against the shell of his ear.
He lets out a huff of air, pulling back slightly to take in the unapologetic vigilante sitting in his passenger seat. “I’ll show you how much during the aftercare, princess, but fair warning, I do plan on completely wrecking your shit when we get home,” he places a kiss right on your nose as your mouth drops.
Well, fuck.
Fin
I've returned from the islands, and I am back to my regular scheduled programing. This was too much fun to write! Like I was kicking my feet in the airport typing this up with so much glee.
Since I'm back I will return to a regular uploading schedule, but because it's summer, I do be outside and I happen to work a 9-5, so if its late please be kind to me beloved!!! I'm learning balance.
Thanks for reading doll, let me know what you think!!!
Mack 💕
@suyeomiiee @calyceeee @magnificentlyrainythunder @mossmydarling @daydreams-and-peace
